


Shirley Temple

by MistressOfMalplaquet



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Aftercare, Betty is a BAMF, Betty's just good at everything, Coitus Interruptus, Dangerous Romeo and Bad-Ass Juliet, Dark Betty, Dom!Betty, F/M, First Time, Jane Eyre - Freeform, Loss of Virginity, Miss Cooper I had no idea, Praise, Serpent Juggy, Sex, Soft BDSM, Sub Drop, Sub!Jughead, Subspace, Tags to be added, This is what happens when the author sees a meme, Veronica is a BAMF, bughead - Freeform, dub-con, sub space
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-13 21:53:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 47,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11769135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressOfMalplaquet/pseuds/MistressOfMalplaquet
Summary: Jughead thought he could teach the blond girl a thing or two, but he's the one who gets schooled.





	1. Cherry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redcirce](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redcirce/gifts).



> Works connected to Shirley Temple: [the beautiful manip](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12793233) done for this fic by [redcirce](http://archiveofourown.org/users/redcirce/pseuds/redcirce) here on AO3. I am in awe of such talent, and the result is simply perfect.

“Hey there, Juliet.” Jughead perches on the back of the booth seat, plucks the cherry from Betty’s milkshake, and eats it.

“What the hell?” she gasps.

He’s been wondering if Princess Cooper has a temper, and the flash in her eyes proves she does. Her ponytail seems to point at him as if it has its own personality, and at the same time the little diamond bows in her ears wiggle. _Interesting._ “The cherry’s the best part,” she declares.

“Indeed it is.” Jughead shrugs out of his Serpents jacket. “And I think it’s about time I popped yours.”

He’s been working on that line, and so far she’s played along perfectly. Immediately, however, things start to go south. Instead of blushing or giggling, Betty folds her arms and tucks one corner of her mouth into a full McKayla Maroney. “Too bad Pops doesn’t serve wine,” she deadpans, “since it would go perfectly with your cheese.”

_Hm._ Jughead raises one eyebrow and figures it’s time to go to guns. “You’re flawless under these neon lights. I just want to remember this forever when we’re both old and gray…”

“Okay.” Betty stands, slings a purse shaped like a cat’s face under her elbow, and claps him on one shoulder. “I’m going to stop you before you get to the part where you tell me you don’t want to be alone, that nuclear war could happen tonight and it might be our last chance, or that your name’s Haywood Jablome.”

“My name’s Jughead.” He also stands, getting as close as possible. Betty doesn’t wear perfume, just a clean skin and laundered clothes smell that drives him crazy. “Why would I ever want to change that?”

Strangely, this is the line that earns him a laugh, too late. “Good night, Jughead,” Betty actually goes on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. His jaw drops as she saunters out of Pops: belted pink coat, bouncy ponytail, bow earrings and all. One slender hand flutters as she waves goodnight to Pops, and the door closes behind her with a jingle.

There are plenty of girls in Jughead’s little black book. He could hop on the bike, ride to a pay phone, call any random name for a nice time. But Betty’s lips were soft on his skin, and her banter has revved him up, and a second later he follows her out of the door.

Jughead catches up with her at the corner. “You’re a fast walker, Princess,” he says.

“I have good lungs, since I don’t smoke.” Her eyes rake him up and down. “May I help you with something, Mr. Jones?”

_Oh you sure can,_ he wants to drawl. _Baby, I can rock your world like no one else. I’ve got a PhD in going south, and you’re the destination on my GPS._

What falls out of his mouth is the dumbest line he’s ever said to anyone, including Midge Klump when he begged her for a first date. “I really liked your speech tonight in front of the town center,” Jughead blurts. “You in those sensible heels, not a hair out of place as though you stepped out of a band box. And then you opened your mouth and blasted the entire auditorium with the angriest, most intelligent discourse I’ve ever been privileged to witness.”

The streetlamp shines on Betty’s hair and pink coat, making her glow in the dark. He figures Operation Princess Cherry is a bust.

And for some reason, a miracle occurs. Betty calmly asks, “Got a place we can use?”

#

Hell yeah, he’s got a place. They arrive at his trailer, her legs wrapped around his hips, hands on his waist. Jughead could ride like that all night.

Betty hops off the back of his bike and pulls off his spare helmet. “Great ride,” she says. “Except you might have dirty spark plugs. Better check it out later.”

One small fist wraps the front of his jacket, and she pulls him to the door. Betty waits as Jughead fumbles out a key, jams it into the door, and opens it. “It’s not a palace,” he starts, but Betty interrupts.

“I love it here.” Indeed, the shabby room seems to glow with her there as if she swallowed the light from the streetlamp and reflects it inside his shitty little home.

She walks around the front room, examining pictures as she undoes her coat. “Your sister?” Betty points to an old black-and-white of Jellybean.

“J.B.” Jughead doesn’t want to talk anymore. Instead he slits his eyes and beckons with one hand, a come-on move that works every time.

Not with Betty, apparently. She turns away, picks up another photo, and brushes two fingers over the glass. Jughead watches the rise and fall of her golden lashes, and he swears he can almost see the cogs and wheels and springs in this girl’s incredible mind.

He clears his throat to take his mind off the beautiful curve of her neck. “Golly, Betts. Should I get out the family albums so you can peruse them? See the enthralling Kodachrome history of Aunt Petunia taking a Sunday walk?”

Betty turns to him, white teeth biting into a lush lower lip. “That would be great,” she answers sweetly.

#

They sit on his dad’s old couch, since Betty doesn’t seem to mind the rips or the duct tape holding it together. Jughead makes sure he spreads out as much as possible, arm along the back of the sofa, one knee pressed against her satin thigh.

She ignores him and turns the pages, pointing out several pictures of Jellybean. “Is that your dad?” she asks.

“Yeah.” Jughead pushes the album onto the floor. “Nothing to see there. He’s a loser, obviously, and I’m following right in his footsteps.” He calculates he’s done his time talking. “Are we going to do it or what?”

Calm as a statue in some tiny cathedral, Betty hooks the album with her foot and picks it up. She turns back to the picture and points to FP. “He’s giving you bunny ears,” she points out.

It’s the final straw. Jughead bounces off the couch and waves at the tiny trailer. “We don’t live like you do, Princess, in a perfect family with a perfect house and perfect dogs. Or cats, whatever. My dad forgot my birthday when I turned 10. One Christmas J.B. and I came out expecting presents from Santa and found nothing but two passed-out gang members on this very couch. In fact, it’s probably best if I take you home now. Doubt this is going to work out. Sorry to waste your time.”

He expects her to either yell at him or rip off his clothes. Instead, Betty stands up and, without a word, holds out her palms for him to see.

The old clock in the kitchen ticks, and far away an old transistor radio plays Wichita Lineman. Neither Jughead nor Betty talk. They stand, frozen, as he looks at her perverted stigmata.

Jug’s got the reputation of a ladykiller, a player, the Virgin Surgeon. But faced with what this girl displays so bravely, that side of him crumbles and he catches her fingers in his. Closing his eyes, Jughead raises her fists to his lips and kisses them.

When he opens his eyes, Betty motions to the couch. “Time is wasting, as you pointed out. Also, you keep calling me Princess, I’m not sure why, but I’m going to take full royal advantage. Now sit your ass down on that couch and pick a safeword.”

“A what?” Jughead frowns, even as he moves in auto-pilot to comply.

“Oh, I think we’re far past vanilla at this point.” Betty climbs onto his lap and frames his face with those scarred palms of hers. “Is your safeword Kerouac? Maybe Dark Shadows? Ginsberg? Noir?”

“Holy shit,” Jughead breathes. She looks fresh off the movie lot of a classic feature. He caresses her thighs, her hips, her waist.

“Don’t touch unless I say you can.” Betty leans forward and kisses him, taking his lower lip between her teeth. “Safeword now, or I’m calling an Uber.”

He realizes he’s harder than he’s ever been in his life, light-headed with how quickly blood has flowed to his stiff, aching dick. “Tarantino,” Jughead gasps.

Betty smiles, her expressive face alight with approval. “Tarantino. Good boy. Both hands on the couch, and I mean it. I’m going to kiss you now. Is that okay?”

Her lips are full and conch-pink. Jughead becomes aware he’s spouting _Yeah, yeah, good, yeah, stick your tongue down my throat, Princess._ Betty puts a stop to his nonsense, Thank Christ, by leaning forward and giving him the sweetest kiss he’s ever had. No tongue, just a sigh against his mouth so he can taste her breath. It’s ice cream and cake and hamburgers.

It’s the entire left side of Pops’s menu.

He tries to strain forward for more, but Betty presses him back with her thumb. “No,” she directs, and kisses him again.

Jughead closes his eyes and feels everything float away. He doesn’t have to worry about sending Jellybean money or if his dad’s out of jail. There’s nothing to think about except his princess, light on his lap and tickling every cell in his body with the softest of touches: one lip brushing his, a fingertip on his pulse, her ankle rubbing his knee.

It’s like nothing he’s ever felt before, as though he’s descending inside himself past muscle and bone to a mysterious place Jughead never knew existed. A place you’d see inside a bathysphere, perhaps, all black and murky green shot through with shafts of gold from a far-off sun.

Betty’s whispering in his ear, “Take me to your bed,” and she grazes his earlobe with her teeth. He’s so turned on by that point that the effort to lift her is nearly orgasmic.

“Jesus, Princess,” Jughead can’t help saying. “You sure are some surprise. Thought you’d be all shy, terrified maybe. But no, you’re a …”

“A freak. I know.” Betty tumbles out of his arms into the sheets that have been washed so many times it’s hard to see the pattern. She graces Jughead’s old mattress with her skirt askew, blouse rucked up on one side to show a little starburst of freckles.

“Why me?” Jughead blurts. “Any guy would fall over himself to be your first. Why’d you say yes to me?”

“Because,” Betty says, “you’re exactly what I deserve. Now shut up and come here.”

#

Her skin is haunted by the ghost of last summer’s bikini. Her neck is long and the skin, he discovers, extremely sensitive. Her hands are quick and clever, bringing Jughead to the brink several times. Her breasts are upright. _No,_ Jughead thinks, _not soft._ Betty is layered, complicated, subtle. He’s never experienced such intelligent lovemaking, filthy and demanding.

She pulls his belt out of its loops with her teeth, does the same to his zipper. She caresses him with her breath and pulls his hair at the same time. She kisses him and, when he least expects it, bites his shoulder.

She’s fire and ice.

“Jughead,” Betty says. “What’s your safeword?”

Oh. Right. “Tarantino,” he says and realizes he’s shaking with desire. When was the last time that happened? When he lost his own virginity, maybe, except it had been over in minutes.

“Juggie.” Her voice is sharper. “Do you want to use it now? Need me to stop?”

No. No, he doesn’t, except now words are beyond him, and he shakes his head.

“Okay.” Betty sits on top of his hips and caresses his chest, tweaks one nipple in a delirious burst of pain. “If you can’t talk and you change your mind, just raise one hand. Got it? Raise it now to show me you understand.”

He swims through warm maple syrup, just able to lift one palm.

“Good,” Betty purrs. “Next time I’m bringing cuffs, some light rope.” She runs a finger over his neck and grinds down on him, regal and naked. “Maybe a collar. Would you like that?”

He nods, and she pulls his arms to sit, and she stands in front of him right on the mattress, and Jughead figures out what she wants him to do. Her sex is visible, excited, when she lets him lick her – soft, like everything she does. He gets to taste her, lap that elegant little slit, and at last he gets to use his best moves: map out her clit like a mysterious treasure island. Write the alphabet with his tongue just off the too-sensitive center, sticking to the underside since it makes her moan. Add his name, JUGHEAD.

Maybe it’s like leaving a part of himself, right on her center.

“Ohhh,” Betty sighs. Her thighs shiver, she’s almost there, and he scrawls his last name: JONES. It earns him Betty’s hand on the back of his head. Her hips stutter, and he feels her come apart under his lips.

Betty presses him back on the mattress and tells him she wants to taste herself. Her curious little tongue licks into his mouth for the first time, and Jughead feels the old, broken trailer take off like a splendid rocket into the stars.

“Don’t come,” Betty warns. She tears open a little foil packet with her teeth and rolls the condom over him.

Jughead lets loose a spray of curses, saying her name over and over. _Fuck, Betty. Oh, please please please skewer yourself on my dick and fuck me, Betty._

The words sound like a profane prayer.

When she envelopes him with her wet tight heat, Jughead arches under her. Betty’s eyes screw up, her mouth opens. “Okay?” he manages to gasp. It is her first time, after all.

“Yes. Okay. I’m good.” And she moves, taut stomach sliding against his. Like her kisses, sex with Betty is multi-layered. The slow glide lets Jughead feel every hitch in her breath, the beat of her heart, a flutter where he is now allowed inside.

“Princess,” Jughead warns. “I’m close.”

“No. Hold back. Just one more minute.”

He tries to remember baseball line-ups and the name of his third-grade teacher. With a surge of triumph, Jughead manages to hold out until she cries out and tenses in his arms, and it’s all over.

Like a fucking geyser it comes shooting out from his belly and thighs and dick. Jughead feels it in every part of him, even his scalp. Betty works him through it and, when he shudders through the aftershocks, tightens around him again while she scratches one nail down the back of his neck.

He comes a second time, something that has never happened to him. Ever. This virginal princess has wrung two mind-blowing orgasms out of him in quick succession, and he falls back on the slender pillow into a waterfall where everything is golden, golden, golden.

#

“Juggie?”

Betty’s voice rouses him out of his stupor. Jughead squints and sees a milky glow in the splash-back of neon from the trailer park. “Wha up,” he manages to say.

“Hey there. Shh, I gotcha.” Her voice grounds him. He’s in the trailer. On his narrow bed. Betty holds an old mason jar filled with water, and she helps him up to drink.

“Perfect,” she whispers. “That’s just perfect. You did so well, Juggie. You were amazing. I need you to focus for me now, though.”

“Oh. Kay.”

Betty’s expressive face splits in a delighted grin. “You need to eat something. Here, I made you a quick snack – nothing fancy, but…”

Jughead rouses himself enough to look at the plate. There’s a pile of tiny sandwiches cut into different shapes: hearts, diamonds. “Where are the clubs and spades?” he demands. “No, kidding. Seriously, I know for a fact there was no food in the place. Did you raid a neighbor?”

“Nope.” Betty giggles. “I’m the MacGyver of the kitchen.” She feeds him a few bites, peanut butter in one, cheese and pickle in another. It’s like heaven. "Say, did you write your name on my clit with your tongue?"

"Oh. You figured it out, huh?" He grins at her around a mouthful of sandwich.

"Yeah. I liked the J's. Jughead, watch it! Don't laugh so hard - you'll spill food all over the bed."

As he eats, Jughead comes back to himself. He’s still naked under the covers, but she’s got her clothes on. “You’re not leaving already?” he asks through a large mouthful.

“Not yet. Soon, though.” Betty puts down the plate on a stack of paper, and he reaches out to stop her. “Something important?” She peers at the typed words. “A research paper?”

“No.” Jughead swallows, drinks more water, and sits up. “It’s, uh. Kind of a manuscript – novel – type thing.”

Her jaw drops. “Juggie, did you write this? Are you an author?”

“Yeah.” He grins and rubs the back of his neck. “Don’t tell anyone. It would ruin my Cro-Magnon image.”

“Oh, my gosh.” Betty puts his plate on the floor and stares at him. “I had no idea.”

She looks so pretty that he can’t help surging forward to kiss her, except he just ate sandwiches and Betty is candlelight perfection.

“Listen,” Jughead says. “I’m going to go brush my teeth, get cleaned up, etcetera. Let’s hang out and watch an old movie. Oh, and if you’re free tomorrow, there’s this place I want to show you down by the riverbank. The fish spawn under the jewelweed, and the oak leaves frame the sunset just right this time of year.”

Betty folds her arms. “Jewelweed, huh?”

#

Jughead rushes to the cramped closet they use as a bathroom and brushes his teeth. One glance in the mirror shows his hair standing straight up, so he tames it as much as he can with water and his fingers.

Facecloth.

Deodorant.

Mouthwash.

Jesus, it’s like he’s getting ready for a prom.

When he emerges, the trailer is silent as a crypt. “Princess?” Jughead calls. “Betty?”

Nothing.

She’s not in the bedroom, or the kitchen, or lounging on his couch. After ten minutes of frantic searching, he finds a tiny piece of paper propped up on the scarred coffee table. There are two lines of exquisite handwriting on the back, but no name.

Jughead picks it up and reads before letting it fall onto the floor. The crumpled receipt from Pops showing the purchase of one strawberry milk shake is the single clue that his magical encounter has happened at all.

 

_Jughead, I was wrong. It seems I don’t deserve you after all._

_PS – Don’t forget to check those spark plugs._

 


	2. Map

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She can't stay away.

It’s nice in the old Riverdale High Library. The smell of old books mixes with drowsy dust in spears of sunshine and silence.

Betty’s almost finished with her paper on Politics of Gender: Female Gaze in Jane Eyre. She sits at a deserted table, surrounded by notes. Her hair is scraped back into the usual ponytail. It’s Spirit Day, so she’s wearing her cheerleader uniform. Her nail polish is clear. Her lipstick is pink.

The cover of the Bronte novel shows a Victorian girl in a painting. Betty caresses the spine and thinks about all the horror hidden under such a demure package. 

With a small sigh, Betty picks her notes and begins to organize them. Already an outline is becoming clear, the progression of her theory and how she’ll prove it.

“Busy?”

Jughead’s deep, harsh voice makes her jump and look up from the flimsy cards. “What the heck are you doing here?” Betty frowns as he picks up a chair, flips it around, and straddles it. “You aren’t allowed in here. If someone finds you…”

“They’ll what, exactly? Give me detention inside a school I don’t attend?” The silver storm of his gaze rakes over her. “And don't give that bullshit. You actually asked for this, sweetheart. ’Don’t deserve you’? What the fuck does that mean? And how dare you leave without saying goodbye?”

Betty’s jaw drops. “How dare I?” she repeats. “ I _said_ goodbye. On paper. And are you really going to tell me you never took off from a hook-up without an explanation?”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Because I’m such a ‘Romeo’?”

“Why are you here?” Betty demands. “I’m sorry I left. You weren’t what I expected, put it that way.”

Jughead gets up and stalks to the chair next to hers. “Princess, that makes two of us. And why don’t you deserve me?”

He’s close enough to sense the heat of his skin, breath when he talks. Betty suppresses a shiver and shakes her head. “Don’t want to talk about it.”

“Why?” he insists.

“Can’t you just let it go?” As she asks, Betty can see Jughead won’t stop. He’s like her, bullheaded once he gets on a trail. He has to know. The only way to get rid of him is the same way she fucked him the night before: with pain. “You’re bad for my image,” Betty says. “I can’t waste time on a loser like you. Take your leather jacket and your stupid motorcycle, get the hell out, and don’t come back.”

Jughead’s reaction is faster than a serpent’s strike. His arm shoots out and pushes books, papers, notebooks, and her backpack off the library table in one wide swath. The items crash to the floor, and Betty jumps back in her seat.

“Betty.” Principal Weatherbee is behind Jughead’s, somehow materializing like a conjured Bloody Mary inside a mirror. “What’s going on? And you.” He taps Jughead on the shoulder, and the boy’s expression turns murderous. “You need to get out of here this instant, young man.”

She could tell him that Jughead is bothering her, has followed her inside her own, safe space. The principal would kick him out, and Betty’s certain it would end their little affair, that Jughead would be safe from her. But the boy’s face is white with some smothered emotion, and she knows she put that blankness there.

“Principal Weatherbee,” Betty says in her ‘Let’s Impress the Grown-Ups’ voice. “How nice to see you. May I introduce Jughead Jones? He’s visiting Riverdale High as part of the Reach Out Program you approved in the fall.”

“I don’t remember that…” the Principal begins.

“How is your sister feeling after the last experimental treatment?” she continues. “Don’t forget the ALS fundraiser next weekend. I hope to hand you a bigger check than last year after the festivities.”

“Oh. Indeed. Yes, that would be most appreciated by the hospital.” The principal stares meaningfully at the scattered books, and Betty jumps up to retrieve them, muttering something about her clumsiness.

When she stands up, Principal Weatherbee is gone. Jughead watches her plunk down the stack of books, one eyebrow raised. “That was quite the amazing performance,” he drawls. “Thanks for the entertainment, princess.”

Before Betty can explain or even answer his original question, Jughead’s on his feet. He swivels and marches out of the room without another look at her.

In his wake, the silence surges back into the old library. Betty sits back, winded by the scene, and finds little satisfaction in the fact that she's finally chased Jughead Jones away from her. He’s gone, and there’s nothing she can do to change it.

It isn’t until she rouses herself and puts her notes back in order that she finds a map, sketched on a page ripped out of Jane Eyre. Betty recognizes the line above the drawing: _“He was the first to recognize me, and the first to love what he saw.”_

The map is plainly marked, a small section of Sweetwater River. There’s nothing to mark its source except for one addition: a tiny crown sketched on the riverbank.

#

Betty vows not to go. She sets up a tutoring session with Ethel for calculus class. She cleans out her locker. She goes to cheerleading practice and stays late to work on a complicated pyramid with Veronica and Cheryl.

When it’s too late and Jughead must have left, Betty races to her dad’s truck. Backpack gets flung on the passenger seat. Key thrust into the ignition. Door closed and seatbelt locked on the fly.

The old Ford whines as she presses the accelerator to the floor on Route 55. Betty ignores the speed limit and, as she nears the river, several red lights.

Heart slams in a frantic rhythm. _One Mississippi. Two Mississippi._ He’ll be gone. Betty will arrive to see an empty field, a pyrrhic victory.

Jughead’s frail map is balanced carefully on her knee. Betty sees a few markers she knows: a clump of willows, the small cliff where she and Archie used to fish for trout.

With a final complaint, the Ford bounces over the rocky trail off the highway. Betty cuts the engine and tumbles out.

Even though winter is melting into spring, the nights are still early. Betty’s throat closes with a sob when she looks around the small space – a beautiful spot, just as Jughead had promised. It’s filled with nothing but shadows.

“Stupid,” Betty hisses. “Why am I so stupid?”

One of the shadows detaches itself from the leafy darkness. “You’re lucky, not stupid,” it declares.

Shock is succeeded by anger so profound it makes Betty tremble. “Lucky?” She reaches out, grabs his collar, and pulls him forward. “You were just about to leave. I’d have been alone here.”

“You were late,” Jughead points out. “Really late. If I left, it would have been your fault.”

“You should have left,” Betty cries out. “Why didn’t you? Why wait for…”

“I don’t know.”

They stand so close she can feel his lips on hers when he speaks, his breath on her skin. Their hips are flush, and she stand between his parted legs. “I actually hoped you’d have gone,” Betty whispers. “That’s why I took so long to get here.”

The way he smiles, both eyes crinkled and mouth curved into an outrageous smirk, enrages her further. “I’m not making your difficult decisions for you, princess.” Jughead winds one arm around her waist. “You tell me to leave, right now, and I’m gone. For good.”

Betty means to tell him _Get out of here_ , except somehow her tongue has curled into his instead. She has one moment to wonder how she arrived in this situation before her back hits the trunk of a tree and Jughead’s arms bracket her head. His eyes are narrowed, looking into hers as they kiss. Already he’s hard against her, painfully obvious against the tiny skirt she wears.

“You’re such a pain in the ass,” Jughead gasps.

“I know I am. Got anything?”

“Back pocket.”

_Thank God._ Betty slides her hand into his jeans, finds the tiny packet, and opens it with shaking fingers. Jughead gives no mercy, kissing her neck and licking the spot right behind her ear.

The metal jangle of his belt as she undoes it, the hiss of the zipper. “You’re commando,” Betty says.

“Yeah.” Jughead nudges his nose against hers, a surprisingly tender gesture.

In return she bites his lower lip, sucks it into her mouth as he pull off her bloomers. “Next time I want you naked,” Betty orders. “Waiting here for me, not sure when I’ll arrive.”

“Would you like that?” Jughead pulls her up, a sudden jerk so she’s sitting on his slender hips. He’s surprisingly strong for such a slender person.

“Would you?”

“Yeah. I would.” Jughead rolls on the condom and enters her in one move, swearing as he hits balls-deep inside her. “Jesus. I’d be hard as Venusian Calculus by the time you got here, especially if you had this little skirt on. Maybe – fuck, princess – nothing else. Mmm, Christ you feel so good. Would you do that? Wear it? Just for me?”

It tickles her clit to think of it, and Betty arches against the tree. He’s sliding into her slowly, so slowly, and in revenge she tightens around him. It earns her another curse, right into her mouth.

They finish against the tree as if the world were about to end. When she comes, Betty nearly whites out against him as he groans and bites her jaw. It’s an uncontrolled tumble to the forest floor on a bed of pine-needles and oak leaves, him still inside, both panting each other’s names.

#

“I didn’t mean to jump you.” Betty reclines against him, his leather around her shoulders. She’s wearing nothing else except her cheerleader’s skirt and shoes, and he’s only in his jeans. They’re on an old towel from her truck, a shared bottle of water in her fist.

“Well.” Jughead speaks soft and low into her ear. “I think this thing might be bigger than both of us, princess.”

Betty shivers, an electric shudder from her core. “What are we going to do, Juggie? Your friends at the Whyte Worm wouldn’t be too happy to see me on your arm.”

“Fuck those guys. Although, I see your point. I highly doubt your parents would welcome me to family dinners any time soon.” He kisses her cheek and cups one breast, rubbing a thumb over the nipple. “So soft, Betts. You feel like silk after we make love.”

“Love-making?” Betty snorts. “Animalistic sex, maybe.”

He draws in a sharp breath. They sit in silence, and just as she’s about to get up, brush the leaves off her uniform, try and make herself look human again, Jughead says one word. “Tarantino.”

A tear spills out over her cheek, hot and shocking. Betty twists in his arms, straddles his lap. She doesn’t care if he gets stained with her juices. Maybe he’ll smell her later, on him, when he goes home. “Did you just…?”

“Use a safeword? Yes. Yes, I did. Also -” Jughead pulls her into a soft embrace, a mere brush of his lips over hers with a hint of tongue. When she opens her eyes, his are closed, and he gasps as though he’s just won a race or survived a fall from a cliff.

In a way, it’s their first kiss.

“Are we really doing this?” Betty whispers. She wants to crawl inside, deep into his bones.

Jughead’s gaze is brazen on her neck and nipples, pink from his clever fingers. “I’m pretty sure we are.”

“In that case.” She settles herself more firmly on his lap and cups his crotch. “You’re mine, Jughead. This is mine.” Betty knows she has to add a final reminder in case he needs an out. “You can still use your safeword if that doesn’t work for you, if you want to keep your reputation as a ladykiller.”

It’s dark by now. Betty presses against the dark and silent boy in the heart of the woods and waits for him to say it. Although she holds her breath, she hears nothing except the thump of Jughead’s heart and Sweetwater River, wild against its restraining banks.


	3. On the Road

Jughead’s only pawnable item, an out-of-date smartphone, went into the shop months earlier when he tried to follow his mom and Jellybean to Ohio. The attempt had been a spectacular failure, and now he has no phone.

Usually he doesn’t mind. It gives him a mysterious, retro reputation to call girls from one of the few pay phones left in Southside. He’s been known to score a hookup over the wires while eye-fucking another chick at the same time, especially when he assumes his patented stance: ‘Moody Bad Boy in Phone Booth.’

But it’s late, and the payphone in Sunnyside has been vandalized again, and Jughead wants to call Betty. It would mean a ride to the outskirts of Riverdale to get in touch with her, and he’s not sure he has enough gas.

This is how the teen Romeo known as Jughead Jones finds himself doing homework in his dad’s trailer. It keeps his mind off what he wants to be doing, which is undressing in front of Betty. Maybe she’d sit in an armchair with her hair back in a severe ponytail and wearing a tailored suit. And heels, definitely. She’d cross those amazing legs and order him to get naked, and then…

Jughead curses and forces his mind back onto math. He doesn’t give a crap about algebra, except lately his life doesn’t seem quite so… closed off, as if there’s a possible path forward after years of living inside a dark cave. He scratches answers, erases, writes again, and actually manages to finish an assignment for the first time in months.

There’s an English essay on Animal Farm he bullshits his way through, and a few geography questions that are an insult to his superior intelligence. There's no way he's dealing with that noise. He pushes the work aside and flops back in FP's old folding chair.

Betty would watch him undress. She’d praise him until he deliberately acted out, maybe flexing a bicep to show off. Her hand would flash, and the slender crop she’d hold would sting his thigh…

Jesus, he’s already chubbing up from a dumb daydream. Jughead shakes off the thought of Betty in stockings and pulls out his laptop so he can work on his novel.

It’s quiet in the trailer for once: no drunken brawls or heated arguments outside. Jughead has to admit it’s kind of nice to sit alone and do work instead of chugging beers or servicing one of the Serpents’ women. There’s a glow of accomplishment in his chest, a feeling he hasn’t felt in a long time - if at all.

“This is a pretty picture.”

Jughead jerks so violently the laptop nearly crashes off the desk. Toni sits on the couch, watching him.

“What the hell.” He decides to cover his fright with righteous anger. “Want to knock next time?”

“I did knock.” Toni gets up and comes closer to wind an arm around his shoulders. “You were lost to the world. And were you doing homework? Never mind, I don’t care. Let’s go out and pick up girls, hmm?”

He shrugs her off. “Don’t want to.” The very thought, all of a sudden, makes his skin crawl.

“No, you don’t get it.” Toni leans back, her eyes never leaving his face, and digs out her phone. One swipe of her thumb reveals a picture of twins, two gingers with huge boobs and hair down to their asses. “Twins, J. _Twins._ My fantasy come to life. We could bang them in the same room, see who can give the most happy endings. I know I’m going to win, though.”

“I said no.” Jughead gets up, walks into the kitchen, and gets down a mason jar. He fills it with tap water and drinks.

If he thinks the move will get him away from her, he’s wrong. Toni comes right up behind him and nips his earlobe. “Tired?” she murmurs. “We could just fuck here if you want. God knows it’s been long enough…”

“No!” Jughead throws the jar into the sink, where it smashes. “I don’t want to. Toni, could you maybe fuck off, I know we’ve been friends with benefits for years, but I’m just. I. I just.”

“Okay,” Toni laughs. “Don’t hurt yourself.” She flicks her gaze over him. “You’ve changed, J. Homework, no sex – you fall in love or something?”

“Love,” Jughead scoffs. Even to himself it sounds like really bad acting, a line from a terrible daytime drama, and he suddenly wants Betty so badly it hurts.

Toni goes up on tiptoe and hugs him. “It’s okay. I won’t tease you anymore – and you know I'm here for you.” Relief floods his veins, and he hugs her back. Toni has been there for him through everything – when his mom left, when FP got arrested – and as usual she’s figured out what he needs.

“Okay.” Toni untangles herself from him and nods briskly. “I’m going. Where’s my phone… oh, here.” She grimaces and adds, “Sure is a shame about those twins, though.”

“You could do them both,” Jughead suggests. “Threesome.”

“Not bad, J. I might just do that, although it would be easier with your excellent wingman skills, but whatever.” A quick kiss on his cheek, and she finally, finally opens the cracked trailer door to leave. Just as Jughead’s about to breathe again, Toni sticks her head back inside. “You don’t have to worry about me,” she murmurs. “But we both know the Serpents still want your bedroom skills on call.”

#

He almost makes it through another hour. The thought of being forced to take some girl out, have sex with her, makes Jughead’s chest fill with a wild, red feeling of terror and shame. The promise he made to Betty by the river is such a fragile thing, subject to outside whims and Fate - which has _never_ been on his side.

At last, when he can bear it no longer, Jughead leaps out of the trailer and onto the back of his bike. He revs it up and hits the road. His breath comes out in painful spurts. 

What will Betty say when he calls her? Will she tell him he has to wait to see her?

But he can’t wait. He simply can’t.

By the time Jughead has reached the phone booth just inside Riverdale’s boundary, his eyes are burning. With the feeling that he’s lived this before, he puts a quarter into the slot and dials Betty’s number.

Her greeting isn’t auspicious. “I know this isn’t the IRS, and I don’t have a fatal computer virus,” Betty snaps. “Don’t try and sell me anything, and by the way, I’m friends with the sheriff’s son."

Jughead means to huff out a laugh, but it sounds more like a sob. “Betty,” he gasps. “I thought maybe we could get together.”

“Juggie?” Her voices changes, becomes lower and warmer. “Hey, it’s good to hear your voice. But are you okay?”

“No,” he admits. “I’m not.”

#

She meets him inside the tiny tree house in her backyard. Jughead thinks it’s the perfect place, small and dark and full of Betty. An old hooked rug and two large beanbags are on the floor, and someone has hung actual curtains on the windows. One tiny table holds a camping lantern, which Betty lights with a wooden match.

They sit on the vinyl pillows, and Betty pulls a bottle of water out of her hoodie pocket. “Drink.” Her command settles the churning in his gut and makes him shiver, both at once. “Good,” she adds. Her hair is loose on her shoulders, she’s wearing soft yoga pants, there are fluffy socks on her feet, and she’s too far away.

“Can you just…” Jughead makes a vague come-hither motion with his arm, and she giggles before rolling out of her pillow and plunking next to him. He wastes no time in wrapping as much of himself as he can around her.

“Okay, hold on.” Betty pushes up on one arm. “What happened?” His eyes close, and he shakes his head. “You don’t want to tell me?” she asks. “Or – can’t tell me?”

“Want to tell you,” Jughead whispers. “But I need you first.”

Her lips part on a soft Oh. Betty brushes her hand over his face - eyelids, lips, chin. Her touch makes him moan, actually moan. One tiny pat makes him sigh like a love-struck schoolgirl. _Stop it,_ Jughead tells himself. _I’m going to stop that right now._

As if to prove him wrong, Betty runs one finger down the side of his neck. The feeling is so incredible Jughead arches up, and more of those weird noises spill out of his dumb mouth.

“Huh,” Betty says in a thoughtful voice. “How about that.” She leans forward, teeth parted.

“Wait,” he begs. “No – I can’t. It’s too much. I feel like I’m all electric. Can I, uh, could you just hug me?”

She sits back on her heels and regards him. The lantern light is yellow and fuzzy, haloing her from behind. Her lips curve up, and her eyes are impossibly, eternally kind. “Yes,” Betty murmurs and pulls him into her arms. “I can do that, Baby Boy. I’ll hold you right here as long as you need.”

Jughead blows out a long, shuddering breath. The red heat in his chest expands and becomes something else, a different kind of wanting he’s never experienced before. His heart beats so fast he thinks he might faint, and he knows he’s breathing like an overworked steam engine into her hair.

“I’ve got you,” Betty whispers into his ear. “Not going anywhere.”

“Can we get closer?” He needs her, every inch of her, and in response she slides into his lap. Her legs bracket his waist. Her chest is pressed to his. And of course their hips are pressed together, and of course he’s hard, but it’s secondary to this scarlet, floating sensation in his body. Betty knuckles his spine and gives him one tiny, curious kitten-lick on his neck.

The redness inside him grows and becomes a pounding, pulsing thing. It’s like his whole body is orgasming – a soulgasm, if such a thing could exist. Jughead knows he’s shivering and crying out, parents be damned, and wetness leaks down his cheeks. Throughout, Betty holds him closer and tells him how good he is, how amazing, so perfect, and Jughead follows her voice down into a warm place where nothing hurts and everything’s okay.

He comes back to himself with an angel who tells him to drink something, just a few sips of water. Jughead opens his mouth and obediently swallows, coughs, and swallows again.

Betty gives him the bottle, disentangles her limbs from his, and leans back on her wrists. She tilts her head to one side like a beautiful, golden bird. “Are you okay? You were kind of out of it for a few minutes.”

Jughead nods slowly. Everything feels floaty and slow, soft and warm. “Yeah,” he croaks and clears his throat. He blows out a breath, joins her on the hooked rug, and brushes a strand of blond hair off her forehead. “Princess, you continue to surprise me, and I thought I’d seen it all.”

“Forget all that for a minute.” Betty clasps one knee. “Something happened to you, Juggie. Can you tell me what it is?”

If he tells her he’s going to have to sleep with some girl for the Serpents, will she slap his face? Scream at him to get out? But if he doesn’t say anything and she finds out?

Because Jughead has the feeling this bright and original girl will find out if he lies to her.

“I take women out when I have to,” he mumbles. “The Serpents tell me a name, and I sweet-talk her, show her a few moves in bed. Usually for information, sometimes cash. Drugs, too.”

“Wait.” Betty frowns. “You mean you’re being _forced_ to have sex?”

He can’t keep his mouth from curling with irony. “Don’t think too highly of me, Princess. I enjoyed it at the time. But then I met you, and maybe I don’t want to any more.”

She avoids his kiss and leans back further. “And if you explained that you aren’t comfortable with sex on demand? That your life has changed?”

Jughead huffs a short laugh. “They don’t take refusal too kindly.”

Betty doesn’t scream or even look disappointed. Instead, she leans forward and cups his chin. “That’s abuse, and you do _not_ have to put up with it. No, don’t argue with me. I’m going to find a way out for you. You won’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

And she shines in the lamplight, bright as a hero in a classic painting. Betty is brave, and she’s beautiful, and Jughead’s starting to think that one day, if he plays his cards right, she might be his, and probably that way is not to look weak in front of her.

“Don’t worry about it.” Jughead climbs to his feet. He has to find a way home, his shorts are starting to feel pretty gross, and changing his underwear in front of Betty is not in the cards. “I’ll be fine, figure something out. You know?” He helps her up, and the ghost of old Jughead makes him force up her chin with one finger, claim a filthy kiss. She tastes like cherries, and why hasn’t he been kissing her all night?

But like a body in motion in physics class, he can’t stop now. “Later, Princess,” Jughead says.

“Bye, Juggie.” Betty’s forehead pleats into an adorable frown as she watches him leave.

#

He climbs out of the tree house, lopes across the back yard, and finds his bike. Jughead’s plan is to ride it as far as he can, ditch it in the woods if he runs out of gas, and thumb it back to the trailer like a criminal on the lam.

It’s an escape, one meant to get him away from Betty and the golden light falling around her like Danae being visited by Zeus. He would have said something stupid if he had stayed with her, Jughead tells himself as he revs the bike and takes off as fast as possible.

But there is no escape.

He can’t run from his heart, and Jughead knows he's already in love.


	4. Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like Ginger Rogers, they're doing this all backwards.

With a stubby pencil, Betty adds a few more notes to her list of thoughts on Jughead’s predicament. She's filled the wrinkled composition paper with scratched-out ideas and furious erase marks. One phrase, TELL MOM, has been written and crossed out five times.

She’s used to working her way through problems. Get a B- on a test? Find a tutor, meet with the teacher. Need money? Do extra babysitting. Feel overweight? Stop eating, work out twice a day.

Have a terrible memory that makes her flinch even to think of it? Bury it deep down in her mind’s seabed.

But when it comes to Jughead’s troubles, Betty is adrift in her little paper boat. There’s nothing she can do, and the realization infuriates her. She wants to pick up the tray of untouched food at her elbow and throw it across the cafeteria just to see the satisfying melange of soup and mystery meat on the pea-green painted wall. All the kids would look up from their phone screens. "Was that Betty? Did you see that? She's really lost it," they'd say. Mr. Weatherbee would order her to the office. Her parents would be called, and her mother would ground her for life.

“…after school,” a deep voice says in her ear.

“Huh?” Betty realizes Archie’s been talking to her. “Sorry, Arch. What did you say?”

“He wants to hang out.” Veronica arrives at the table, faultless in black and pearls. “We haven’t seen you in days, B. I mean, being a maiden in a tower is so over-rated these days.”

She’s about to explain she can’t make it, but Archie interrupts. “What’s a best friend for if I never see you?” 

"Yes," Veronica agrees. "I need my B fix."

So Betty does the usual dance. Of course she’ll meet them later, except not right after school because there’s something she has to do first. “Pops?" she offers. "After football practice?”

“I was thinking La Grenouille in Manhattan for dinner and martinis – kidding,” Veronica sings. “Pops it is.”

One double-cheek kiss, and she leaves with Archie. Betty folds up her useless notes and follows them out of the cafeteria.

Cheryl and her retinue are holding court at the exit. Ginger stands behind Cheryl’s chair, apparently collecting votes for Riverdale’s Blossom Queen. “Of course I’d win,” Cheryl says as Betty stops to adjust the strap of her backpack. “I mean, the title’s positively named after me, except Mommy is insisting on this Paris trip, ugh, so boring.”

“But shopping!” Ginger cries. “Chanel, Dior…I'd love to go to Paris."

"I could probably bring you - tell Mommy I won't leave unless she buys an extra plane ticket. Still, we're not going anywhere if we can't find a caretaker," Cheryl says. Betty hides a grin and thinks how wonderful it is that someone actually wants to hire a caretaker in the new millennium.

Ginger's face twists with sympathy. "You couldn't find anyone to watch Thornhill?”

“Not yet. Ginger, my cup's empty. Go and get me another cappuccino, and then we'll count these votes.”

The conversation doesn’t really register until Betty has reached Professor Flutesnoot’s class. She stops dead in the hall, causing Trev to bump into her and release a flurry of apologies. “It’s fine,” Betty mumbles, although Trev's stammers roll off her back.

A plan, shimmering with simplicity and ease, has materialized in front of her like the silver path of moonlight on water at midnight.

#

The old truck shudders as Betty shifts into Park. _Plugs? Filters? Maybe the throttle body needs cleaning._ She’ll have to check it later.

Betty climbs out and eyes the graffiti-covered school, dark and dirty  against an ominous bank of slate-colored clouds in the sky. She locks the old Ford carefully and giggles with satisfaction as she heads towards the wide swath of steps at the exit. If she’s timed it right – and she thinks she has – Jughead should be emerging from the gray belly of Southside any second.

The daughter of two journalists, Betty mentally checks the characteristics of Southside kids slouching out of school as she waits for him. Mixed-race girl with piercing blue eyes, beautiful boy with mile-high faux-hawk. A pair of twins, red hair curling to their hips. One acne’d boy with red-rimmed eyes who lights a cigarette with hands that tremble, apparently desperate for a smoke. Scary girl with eyes and mouth that are sharp, evil slits. A couple, arms around each other’s waists, looking into each other’s faces with throat-catching tenderness…

Betty emits a tiny squeak of pain. It’s not an anonymous pair. She knows the boy, his black hair and mischievous smirk, his leather jacket and hanging suspenders.

Jughead, it appears, has a girlfriend at Southside.

Frozen for a moment, Betty shakes herself awake and wheels on one sneakered toe. He can't see her, he just can't. Head down, she marches to her truck and feels in one pocket for the keys. _Think about this later,_ she commands the part of her that wants to scream or cry.  _For now, just get out so no one catches you acting like an idiot._

"But he promised!" her heart mourns, and wearily Betty tells herself to shut the hell up.

Tears blur her vision, and her hands shake as she tries to open the door. Drop key ring, curse. Of course the stupid thing slides underneath truck. Find key on ground, bang head on running board, curse some more.

She stands up, blinking away absurd tears. “I’m a strong and independent woman,” Betty whispers fiercely – and stops. A hand splays on the driver’s window, and a second appears on the door frame. She’s bracketed by a pair of strong, slender arms, and there’s no need to turn around to figure out who it is.

“Go away,” Betty blurts.

“Princess,” Jughead murmurs into her ear. “This may be the first time I’ve ever said this in my life, but you and I really need to talk.”

#

At their spot by the river, he sits on a fallen tree with knees wide, hands loosely clasped. Betty paces in front of him, her feet crunching amid the fallen leaves. “I don’t want to be like this, be that jealous girl,” she declares. “We never promised anything to each other – not really, anyway. Well, unless you consider not using a safeword as a promise, which maybe I did? But it’s fine. It's all my fault, really. I'm fine.”

“How often do you tell people you’re fine when you’re really not?” Jughead’s face has never been more open, more vulnerable, with a shaft of late afternoon sun spearing his cheekbone. “And since you didn’t ask, Toni and I are just friends. Best friends. We’ve had sex, not gonna lie, but I made it clear to her we won’t go to bed together again. And, maybe you could come here.”

He catches her belt loops and pulls her to stand between his legs. “Are you going to tell me why you thought you didn’t deserve this? Deserve me? You still haven’t answered my question, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Betty can’t resist pushing her fingers into his hair. Its darkness, nearly blue against her skin, has absorbed the sun’s warmth. “I do want to tell you,” she says slowly, “and we do need to talk about that, but I’ve got some news first. I think I might have a solution to your problem.”

Jughead tips his head back into her touch, like a large and lazy feline. “Which problem is that now? I have an ever-expanding collection of troubles.”

His chin, then his tongue, brushes against her zipper. Betty refuses to be sidetracked. “Last night I couldn’t sleep. Kept thinking about you.”

“I do have that effect.”

“Juggie, it’s not right that anyone should force you to have sex if you don’t want to do it. And – okay, I get it, you say you’re not an angel, but still. You should have control of your life, especially that part.”

A sudden tug on her jeans, and he pulls her closer. “You of all people should know I like to relinquish control."

“But that’s just it. If we do this right, S&M I mean, you _have_ all the control. You as the sub decide what your limits are, and I have to respect them. If I'm going to be a responsible Domme, which I totally want to do.”

The world seems to wheel around her: leaves, water, and sky. Betty finds herself yanked on her back with Jughead prowling over her, eyes crinkled in desire. “Betty Cooper,” he murmurs. “I dream about you in a tailored suit and glasses. Hair in a bun. You sit at a desk and cross your legs. You order me to strip, and I do it because you’re the boss. And you watch me, tapping your pencil on the desk.”

His fantasy is electrifying, and Betty feels sparks in her belly at the thought. “I’d make you clasp your hands behind your back so you couldn’t hide or touch,” she promises. “Watch you get hard, tell you naughty things until you were red and dripping with it…”

Jughead cuts her off with a curse and kisses her deeply. He never holds back, Betty realizes, willing to fuck into her mouth with his tongue until she strains against him. It's impossible not to be affected by his ardor. Impossible not to rip off his shirt, allow him to pull hers off as well. “Talk,” Betty hisses against his lips. “We’re supposed to talk.”

“So talk.” He bites her neck, pushes her pants down far enough to curl his palm over her soaked underwear.

“Juggie,” Betty pants. “I think I can – oh my God! – get you a job, and it would be perfect, Baby Boy, you could say you’re busy when the Serpents want you take out one of their – mmm.”

“Busy,” he repeats. “I am busy. You’re so wet, Princess. That for me? Because I think I can fit right in there, just so nice.”

She means to take control, maybe order him to wait until he's sobbing for it, except her blood is a swirl of comets and stardust. “Now,” Betty urges. “Do me now now now.”

The blunt head of him pushes against her entrance. Jughead sweeps a strand of hair off her cheek, bends to kiss her, and begins the last, delightful slide home.

And the heavens open.

Those dark clouds Betty has seen earlier explode with rain, voluminous and shocking as a cold shower. She shrieks into Jughead’s mouth. The rain is laced with sleet, sharp and inescapable.

“Betty, come on!” A strong arm hauls her to her feet. She has just enough time to grab her phone before they run to the truck, holding up her jeans with one hand. Next to her, Jughead hops the last few steps as he tries to pull up his pants.

They make it into the cab. Betty slams her door just as the rain and sleet increase in intensity.

She looks at Jughead. His gaze is wide, surprised. Belatedly she realizes they’re both still semi-unclothed. “You looked like a crab just then,” she blurts.

A frown. “What?”

“You know…” Betty mimes running with pants around her knees. “And at the end you boinged into the truck like that scarecrow in Howl’s Moving Castle.”

His jaw drops. In the barrage of ice and water, Jughead stares at her before exploding into a full-belly laugh, eyes closed, rolling in the passenger seat.

Betty can’t hold back. A loud and unladylike snort escapes her, and she collapses. Tears roll down her cheeks, and her stomach hurts.

When they’ve recovered somewhat, Betty glances at him. Jughead’s eyeing her sidelong, which sets them both off again. “A crab!” he gasps. “Boing!”

“Stop it,” Betty begs. “I’m going to lose it, right here and right now in this truck.”

At last she catches her breath. Wiping her eyes with the tail of her shirt, Betty catches him staring at her. His eyes are wide, perhaps with surprise. “What?” she asks.

“Betts, I’ve actually been _inside_ you. But that’s the first time we’ve shared a laugh.”

“Yeah.” Betty reaches out, finds his fingers, and laces them with hers. “Guess we’re doing this backwards.”

“I don’t care.” Jughead pulls her forward with one of his soft tugs, just enough to get her into his arms. “Hey,” he murmurs. “This truck in the rain is actually pretty romantic. Want to finish what we started back there? Because to tell you the truth, I’d have rolled in the mud with you, it was that good.”

She blows out a shaky breath and lets him kiss her – sweet and hot with promise. “Dirty pretty thing,” he whispers. “Why do I want you so much?”

“Juggie. Baby Boy.”

Her phone emits a squawk, and Betty curses. “Shit damn hell and poo. Crap. Poop. I'm so sorry, but I have to go and meet some friends.”

“Blow them off.” Jughead pulls her fists over her head and bites the skin behind her ear. “We’re busy, remember?”

She untangles herself. “I can’t, Juggie. I promised.”

His smile disappears. Jughead slumps back into his seat and sighs before pulling his belt up and buckling it with a sharp jangle of metal. “Okay, Princess. I get it.”

It's Princess again, not Betty or Betts. “Well," he adds, voice harsh. "See you later.”

Betty watches him open the door and climb down into the rain. The line of his back is bowed under the barrage, a defenseless beauty, and something inside her twists.

“Jughead!” she calls. “Jug!”

He stops beside his bike, busy with the kickstand. “What?”

Betty sticks her head out of the door and squints against the wind and ice. “Would you – I don’t suppose you’d like to come with me?”


	5. Algebra

As she drives, Betty explains her plan, one hand waving in the air to punctuate her points. “You can live there,” she says. “It’s a bit creepy – well, a lot creepy. In fact, Thornhill is Riverdale’s version of a haunted mansion. I’d get you a better gig, but there was so little time, and I want you safe, Juggie.”

“Juggie,” he repeats. “You just called me Juggie.”

“Yeah.” She grins. “Got a problem with that?”

He considers as she pulls up to a red light and leans back against the door. “I suppose I can live with it,” Jughead concedes grandly.

“Aren’t you swell? You’re a peach.”

“Light’s green,” he adds.

“Oh, right.”

Jughead slumps in the passenger seat and considers her through the one lock of hair that always flops over his forehead, his version of protective coloring. After their run through the ice and rain, Betty has tidied herself up: shirt buttoned up to her collar, ponytail tightened, lipstick touched-up. She looks like she just stepped out of a finishing school.

In contrast, his shirt is ripped, there’s an oil stain on one pants leg, and he’s pretty sure he smells like sex.

“I am a bit perturbed that we didn’t get to finish our little session back there.” Jughead eyes her again, and satisfaction blooms in his chest when Betty’s cheekbones dust with the merest hint of a blush. “Any chance of more later?”

“Well.” She clears her throat. “Now that you’ve brought that up, no pun intended, I did think Thornhill might have some interesting advantages.”

“Did you now!” Intrigued, Jughead twists in the seatbelt she’s made him wear. “Which advantages are those, Miss Cooper?”

“Why, Mr. Jones, I believe the position offers a small caretaker’s cottage. And I thought I might visit that cottage one evening, maybe two.”

“Say no more.” He pretends to bow. “Madam, I believe I shall accept your job offer.”

She sobers. “I still have to convince Cheryl to hire you.”

“I’m an underage biker dude, their dream hire.” Jughead watches her reverse into a corner spot at Pop’s, shift into Park, and turn to face him. “Princess, I hate to dash your hopes and all that, but it probably isn’t going to happen.”

He’s about to promise that he won’t let the Serpents force him into any more hook-ups – or, at least, that he’ll think about her during the actual act. His version of faithfulness, all he has left: if he's forced to take another chick to bed, he'll close his eyes and think of Betty. After all, she’s claimed him, his own lioness.

Betty raises her chin. “It’s going to happen. I’ll make it work.”

Jughead likes the adorable dent between her brows, the way her lips bite off her words so stubbornly. He catches her elbow as she’s about to climb out of the truck and pulls her against his chest so he can tuck his face into Betty’s smooth neck. “You going to let me kiss it later? I can write my name there again, you know, with all the J's.”

Her breath expels in a soft sigh. “Juggie - oh, Baby Boy. I really want you to, but we can't. We have to go into Pops and pretend to be normal people for one hour, maybe two.”

“Hm. I’ll probably go postal at the 119th minute.” Jughead bites her ear, making her moan and stretch against him. “Besides, I’ll be thinking about those silk thighs of yours the entire time, and don’t you forget it.”

#

Her friends are almost impossibly good-looking: a fiery girl with black hair, and some brick wall of a ginger who makes it clear a shovel talk is in Jughead’s future. The girl, Veronica, says Hi and declares Archie has ordered enough fries to feed the upper east side.

Archie, apparently, is the redhead.

The guy wraps Betty in a long hug and glares at Jughead over her shoulder. Jughead glares back. He’s not about to be intimidated by some Outlander with a silver spoon up his ass.

After awkward introductions, Betty sits next to Jughead and flaps the menu at him. “Hungry?”

“I’m always hungry.”

She laughs. “Oh, right. I don’t know why I asked. Ronnie? Going to order anything?”

“No,” the black-haired girl says. “I think my skin will absorb enough grease on its own to feed me for the next month.”

“Unacceptable.” Betty picks up the tiny cardboard pyramid announcing the daily special. “It’s 2 for 1 cheeseburger day, and the onion rings are endless after dinnertime.”

“Two cheeseburgers?” Under the table, Jughead slides his palm over her knee and grins. “Sounds perfect. What are you having then?”

“Ronnie, seriously.” Archie, the Outlander, turns and gets his arm around her. “You’re tiny, and probably you haven’t eaten since lunch. And I bet you worked out after school. Personally, I’m going to do that 2 for 1 deal too.” He points a finger-gun at Jughead and flicks a contemptuous look over his frame. “Except you have no idea how huge those burgers are. One will be plenty for a skinny guy like you.”

“Oh, you think I can’t handle it?” Jughead is nettled. “Now I’m doubling my original order and having four.”

Ignoring Betty’s gasp, Archie leans forward. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Then I’m also having four.” Outlander turns and yells to Pops, “Eight cheeseburgers! And, uh, what are you ladies having?”

Veronica gives Betty a flat look. “Wonderful. We’re living David Attenborough’s dream except with burger consumption as a form of male dominance display.”

#

The girls split a double cheeseburger plate. When the plates arrive, Archie counts out a 3-2-1-Go and immediately smashes half the enormous sandwich into his face.

Jughead doesn’t care. He knows he’s going to win, since years of hunger have given him a basically bottomless pit for a stomach. The first one goes down easily, as does the second. The third he takes his time over, since Archie hasn't timed it right. Already the kid is rubbing his stomach and shaking his head.

“Tell-tale signs.” Betty wipes her mouth with her napkin. “You ready to throw in the towel, Archie?”

“Lose to this pipsqueak? No way.”

“Pipsqueak? Really? The 40’s called, Gramps, and said the 30’s left a message. Something about wanting their slang back.” Jughead waves his final bite of burger in the air and, as a final FU, loads it with a few fries. “Say goodbye to my dinner and your dignity.”

“Damn it,” Archie explodes. “Got a hollow leg or something?”

“No,” Jughead rejoins. “Just a…”

“Don’t say third leg,” Betty warns.

“Okay.” He nudges her knee with his. “I won’t.”

Archie pulls his arm from around the Veronica female and sits forward, hands loosely clasped on the table. “Look, man. Betty and I have been best friends since we were five. Don’t think I’ll put up with any bullshit from you if you try anything on her, because I won’t.”

Veronica sweeps her arm out in dramatic fashion. “And there it is. Archiekins, I’m pretty sure Betty can take care of …”

“Testosterone much?” Jughead sneers. “By the way, my life is none of your business.”

“Both of you, be quiet.” Even though she speaks normally, somehow Betty’s able to inject enough domme in her voice to make Jughead shut his trap. “Look, Cheryl just came in.”

Jughead twists and sees a stunning redhead wearing sky-high boots and the entire contents of Sephora enter Pops. She looks around, makes a face, and seems to change her mind.

Before she can leave, Betty leaps out of the booth and confronts her. “Cheryl, hi. I just wanted to ask you something…”

Cheryl, the redhead, doesn’t appear overjoyed. She backs out of Pops, followed by Betty who is talking with her whole body: hands in motion, ponytail flipping with extra emphasis.

“Ugh, I can’t.” Archie discards the rest of his burger and shakes his head. “How did you eat four of those things? I’m gonna puke.”

“Lovely. On that note, Jughead, lovely to meet you. Ta ta, boys.” Veronica manages to pull on gloves, shoulder her purse, and convey utter outrage in one motion.

Archie watches her leave with a hunted expression before digging in his pocket for a few crumpled bills. “Guess that’s my cue.”

Jughead shakes his head. “Uh, uh. Don’t run after her. Make her wonder what you’re doing and create a little mystery, trust me on this.”

“But she’ll be mad! You have no idea how hot Veronica’s temper is.”

“Exactly.” Jughead finishes his onion rings and leans back in the booth. “Hot is the key word.” Archie just scowls and gives him the finger, which Jughead instantly returns.

They’re at the ‘You’re a douchebag, No you, you're a jackass, no you are’ level when Betty returns and sinks into the booth next to Jughead. “I couldn’t talk Cheryl into it,” she says, rubbing her nose. “She says her parents want a professional caretaker, except they don’t want to pay for one. They just _want_ one.”

Jughead sneaks his arm around her and rubs the soft corner of her shoulder and neck. Ignoring Archie, he puts his lips against her ear and whispers it’ll be okay, they’ll figure something out. As he spills the usual line of BS, designed to calm down a girl he's upset, his stomach sinks. It’s not the job – he can survive without that – but some part of him has started to think about a place where he and Betty can be together without getting rained on. Stupid is what it is – stupid hope, giving him a glimpse of a different life where they can be together.

“What’s going on?” Archie demands.

Beside him, Jughead feels Betty jump. Maybe she, like him, forgot they weren’t alone for a moment. “Sorry, Arch,” she says. “We were – Juggie and I were planning on something. I just realized it’s not going to work out.”

The kid, handsome and clean-cut in his jock jacket, reaches out and covers Betty’s hand with both of his. “Hey, just tell me if I can help. I’ll do anything for you, Betts, you know that.” There’s a warm look in his brown eyes, and Jughead realizes with a shock that Archie loves Betty.

And there’s more. Jughead has fallen for her, he knows that. Love in his world means he wants Betty more than he ever expected. He likes their explosive energy, but he’s also leery of it. It’s like nothing he’s experienced before.

But he guesses Archie’s emotions are on a different level. On this side of town, love is different: it’s protection, gallantry, sacrifice. Even though the Andrews kid is a dumb jock, he’s accessed a level Jughead can only wonder about after arguing about burgers.

Although… there was a time when that wasn’t true, when he held a tiny human, heartbreakingly delicate, in his arms. “Jellybean,” Jughead stated when his mom asked what to call the baby. “Because she’s such a bean.”

FP had sucked his tongue at the suggestion, but the name stuck. And Jughead still remembers how it felt, the desire to shield another person with his body, his life. It had been the purest thing he’d ever known, except now of course The Bean is gone along with Gladys.

The diner suddenly feels too hot, too small. Jughead gets up and nearly knocks over Betty’s milkshake. “Gotta go,” he mumbles to ward off her flurry of questions. “Got stuff to do.”

Slouching to the door, Jughead ignores Betty’s shout and the stares of the other curious patrons. Even outside, he can’t draw breath: the stunning girl with long red hair is huddled with Veronica. “You can’t give up your trip,” she’s saying.

“Veronica, you just don’t understand. Weird things have been happening at Thornhill lately - it even creeps me out, and I've lived there for years. If we’re lucky, Chuck won’t trip over his own shoelaces escaping before we can leave for Paris.”

“That might not happen…”

Jughead has no idea who Chuck is or why he would trip over his sneakers. He lopes past the girls, heads to the street, and runs far enough away to be able to thumb it back to Southside.

His lungs are on fire. His feet hurt. The four burgers are starting to protest: they want him to lie back on a couch and digest. And there’s a sting in his heart that tells him he’s done the wrong thing, as usual.

Immersed in his troubles, Jughead nearly walks into the truck that’s stopped for him. A blond ponytail pokes out of the window. “Get in,” Betty says in her domme voice.

He tries not to obey, but apparently his body is hard-wired. Before he knows what has happened, Jughead finds himself back in Betty’s passenger seat.

#

Betty puts down her window, hefts the soccer keyring she uses in one fist, and throws it out into the leafy darkness. “There. Now we’re staying here until we can communicate beyond Paleolithic grunts.”

“Ladies first,” Jughead comments, even as he admires her sense of drama.

“No, you need to explain why the hell you ditched me at Pops.”

He leans against the truck door. Much as Jughead hates to admit it, Betty’s right. But saying the words will make them real, permanent. “That kid in there. Archie. He likes you, in case you haven’t figured it out.”

“What?” Betty’s jaw drops. “Arch is my best friend – don’t even! After our little conversation about Toni, I tried to explain I had a guy who was my BFF. Don’t even tell me you’re jealous now.”

“That’s not it.” Jughead inhales sharply. “He’s everything I’m not – faithful, clean-cut, steady, dependable. And I can tell he has feelings for you. Might not have admitted it to himself, but he does.”

Her green eyes narrow like a cat marking its prey. “Archie and Veronica are a couple. They’ve been together forever, and by the way, V’s my other best friend.”

“But you deserve someone like that. Not - me.”

Betty moves so quickly Jughead can’t take a breath before she’s on top of him, smooth thighs bracketing his knees. “I nearly killed someone,” she says, breath splintering against his lips. “A guy. He hurt a couple of girls at school. V and I cooked up a scheme to hurt him back, except I took it too far.”

He slides his arms around her waist. “If you got back at some dick who abused girls for fun, good for you.”

“He didn’t abuse them, just put their names on a list. Said they did stuff when they hadn’t, including a friend of mine. Started some rumors…”

“My statement stands,” Jughead interrupts. “Just because it wasn’t physical doesn’t mean it isn’t abuse.”

There’s a pause. Betty dips her head and kisses him. “We lured him into a hot tub,” she says against his mouth. “I dressed up like a cheap dimestore version of a domme to interrogate him, except once we started the scene I couldn’t stop. Jug, basically I threatened him, made him think he was in danger. The other person screamed at me to stop, but I couldn’t hear them. I was too into it.”

He nips her bottom lip, brushes her nose with his. “You never expected to like it,” Jughead whispers. “The power, being dominant.”

One scalding tear drips on his cheekbone. “Yeah.”

Okay. So here it is, her big secret at last after days of teasers, but it doesn’t add up. Jughead reaches up to cup her face, pull her just short of an embrace. “But you’re the most amazing dominant I’ve ever seen, super responsible, always tracking my comfort level, right there with aftercare.”

“Messed up once. I’ll never let that happen again,” she whispers against his mouth. “Especially not to you.”

“Betty. Betty.” Jughead pulls her in for a sweet, slow kiss. All he wants to do is say her name, and hold her, and what the hell is happening to him?

But she breaks away from him to slide back into her seat, huffs an embarrassed little chuckle as she wipes her eyes on both palms. “It’s late. I – I’m afraid I have to get back home. My mom will kill me if I stay out any longer.”

“Damn it.” Jughead slams his body against the car seat. "Coitus interruptus by ice, by diner, and now by homework." 

Betty sniffs and appears to come back to her senses. “Do you want me?" _Well, duh._ "There's no time left for us. But you’re allowed to touch it tonight,” she declares. “Not right away, though. Ten strokes per homework assignment.”

“Don’t have homework.”

“Liar.” Betty grins at him. “And when you’re finished, you can, well, finish. If you get me.”

“Oh, I get you.” Excitement bolts through his body at the thought of it, the way she exerts her control beyond the here and now. “Just wish you could be there to watch.”

“I’ll be there. Because you’ll think of me, right, Juggie? Each touch will be mine, right? You going to imagine I’m there with you in the dark?”

She runs one fingernail down his neck, and as usual, he shudders from her touch.

#

It’s a really good incentive to do work, Jughead discovers. Algebra has never been so exciting.

And when he lies, spent, back on his bed, he laughs when there’s a knock on the door. _You can’t stay away from me, Princess, and that’s a fact._

But his heart sinks when he opens the door and sees the guy in the signature leather jacket. “Hey man,” the biker says. “Been a while, but guess what? Good news. Got you a date for this Friday.”


	6. Telephone

Betty can’t call Jughead, since he apparently relies on pay phones. She’s hardly the kind of girl to wait around for his call: there’s cheer practice, volleyball, Social Justice, and her own studies. When she has a free minute, Betty sets up a lunch date with Veronica and Ethel over the weekend.

Still, she can imagine Jughead’s deep, rather harsh voice coming over her iPhone’s tinny speaker. “Hey, Lambchop," he'd say, "it’s time to climb out of your Dewey card catalogue and meet me for some funny business.”

Tongue poking out of the side of her mouth, Betty finishes her chemistry homework and stashes it in her notebook. The Jane Eyre essay is finished. There are no tests to study for, college apps are complete, and she’s way ahead on a Spanish group project. Nothing else is left to distract her from what she doesn’t want to think about: black hair, eyes that are older than they should be, a mysterious triangle of freckles.

If she lies on her bed, just waiting, Betty will go crazy. To keep herself from cracking up, she digs in the small bedside drawer and pulls out a locked diary. The key is on a chain around her neck.

She knows the lock isn't enough to keep her thoughts private, not when Alice is on the prowl. Betty shifts from English to a code she’s devised, a seemingly simple substitution based on Fibonacci sequences. By now, she’s fluent in her own devised language.

_I wonder,_ she writes, _about gender roles. I wonder about connections. We’re so connected, as humans, available on the other end of a phone at the touch of a fingertip – except Jughead is out of my reach._

_Would he explore gender roles with me? Would he be open to new and different connection? Just how far would he go? I want rope, candle wax, a straight-edge razor._

Her fantasy teases, a filthy image. Betty’s about to describe it in her own, special code, when there’s a knock at her bedroom window.

Dropping her head between her elbows, Betty hides a delighted grin. He’s here. Somehow, even as she’s imagined what they can do together, he’s arrived outside her window. She can describe these ideas brewing inside her like dark, delicious wine to Jughead himself.

She shoves the diary under her pillow, rolls off the bed, and pads to the window. It frames the night, darkness knobbed with a darker shape, and the reflection from her lamp hides his face until she pulls up the sash.

It isn’t Jughead outside her window. Archie, his hair like a flame, stands at the top of an old ladder he’s resurrected from some old construction site. She can see the Andrews logo on the top rung.

“Hey there, Betty.” Archie raises both eyebrows, his signature questioning look that made her knees weak when she was in middle school. “Can I come in?”

“You shouldn’t be here. My mom…”

But already he’s climbing inside, big sneakers squashing the dusty rose of Betty’s window seat. “I just wanted to talk to you.”

Betty crosses her arms. “There are these nifty things called phones now, Arch. Texts, emails – we live in a golden era of communication.” Juggie’s sardonic tone seems to be catching. She can picture him, suspenders hanging over his pants, fleece collar turned up against the wind, and a spike of desire shoots through her core.

“Just – can I close the window? It’s freezing.” Archie reaches out and touches her elbow gently. “I’ve missed you. Seeing you. We used to hang out all the time, but it’s been months since we went to the movies or Pops.”

“We were at Pops a few days ago!”

He ignores her protest, folds her into a huge hug, and buries his face in her neck. Archie’s large, footballer body shivers against hers. “But that was with Ronnie and that guy. I just wanted to see you.”

Betty awkwardly pats his back before she disentangles herself from his arms. “'That guy', as you put it, is my..."

How can she describe Jughead? Instead, she switches the conversation. "Does Ronnie know you’re here? We should call her. I should definitely call her.” Although Archie is almost a part of Betty: old love, best friend, next-door neighbor. For the first time she feels nervous next to him, which seems to be making her babble.

“No!”

She frowns and crosses her arms. “What the hell is going on?”

His hands slip from her shoulders to cup her elbows. “It’s my dad. Things are bad at his company – really bad. We might lose everything, Betts. I can’t tell Ronnie yet – I just can’t.”

“Archie, I’m so sorry about this. But you’re wrong about V - she’ll understand better than anyone!” Betty taps one fingernail against her lower lip. “However, I bet we could figure out something. Maybe scout for jobs for your dad. Try farther afield, beyond Riverdale. Go to Southside. There are construction projects galore over there, or at least there should be. The whole town needs a serious revamp.”

His face lights up in Archie’s usual careless smile, the one she fell for all those years ago. “See, this is why I came to talk to you. No one else solves problems like you, my cherished preserver.”

“Wait a minute,” she giggles. “Did you just quote a line from _Jane Eyre_?”

“I read a few chapters. Under duress.”

There’s the familiar grin again, and Betty relaxes. “Listen. We’re going to help your dad. I’ve got some ideas already! And if we sit down with him, come up with some marketing ideas, scout out new jobs…”

He moves quickly. Before Betty can stop him, she’s being soundly kissed. Her mind reacts with a definitive NO, and she pushes him.

For the span of one dreadful minute, they stare at each other. “Archie, just cut it out,” Betty hisses. “Don't do that. Ew, ew, ew.”

The expression on his face would be comical if she weren’t so furious. “’Ew’? Really?” Archie frowns. “I mean, I always thought…”

“What? You always thought what? That you’d snap your fingers and I’d come running? Not to mention you’re dating my _best friend._ You’re my other best friend, but I feel like I don’t even know you right now. Seriously? You come up here to talk about your family troubles, which I’m truly sorry about, and then take advantage? What, are we stuck in a gothic novel just because you read a chapter of Jane Eyre? I’m no madwoman in the attic, I’ll have you know.”

She knows she looks like an old-fashioned schoolteacher with one finger wagging in the air to emphasize her point, but Betty can’t help it. “And furthermore, you’re an asshole,” she finishes with a flourish.

“Okay. No, you’re right. I’m so, so, so sorry.” Archie breaks towards her as though he’s going in for a hug, but she wards him off with her teacher-ish finger.

“You,” Betty declares, “are going to call your girlfriend and tell her exactly what you just did. And you will make it clear I had nothing to do with it. And then you will kiss her feet.”

He mumbles she’s right, he’s slime, and he just couldn’t help it because he just…

“Out,” Betty intones and points to the window.

With a couple of Oofs and a few more Sorry’s, Archie opens the window and climbs back onto the ladder. “For what it’s worth,” he says quickly, “if there was a chance you might say yes, I’d do it all again.”

Betty slams the window shut.

She waits until his red mop has disappeared. The encounter has left her shaken, worried about Archie and what Veronica’s reaction is going to be. Will V hate her?

The glass is cold against her forehead, and the night outside is dark, lit only by a flickering streetlamp. Does a piece of that darkness detach itself and move to the street? The outdated lamp blinks again, revealing what looks like a figure on the sidewalk. However, Betty can’t be certain it’s anything at all.

She waits, straining her eyes to see, wishing more than anything that Jughead would call so she could talk to him about what just happened. She needs, more than ever, his ironic humor and surprisingly clear-sighted advice.

But her phone stays silent.

#

Friday morning is a splash through the rain into Riverdale High’s student lounge, which smells like wet denim and coffee. Betty sidles in, hoping against hope Ronnie won’t be there so she can organize her thoughts for the 50th time. Her stomach sinks when she sees V’s little black dress and pearls, already in place on the comfiest seat in the room.

Betty shakes her umbrella, stows it behind the trashcan, and sits gingerly on the couch beside her best friend. “Hi,” she croaks.

Veronica doesn’t look up from her notebook. “Filthy weather. I want to be on a yacht in St. Tropez, but instead my life is literally frazzled – along with my hair.”

“You look great.” Betty clears her throat and decides the only way to get this over with is to plunge right in. “V, did Archie talk to you last night?”

The question makes Veronica look up from her notebook, one perfect eyebrow arched. “Yes, he did.”

“And did he tell you … everything?”

“By everything I suppose you mean the fact that he kissed you, and yes he did. And then I used a sweet move that I do believe pop culture calls Breaking My Foot Off In His Ass.”

Betty nods in approval. “And are you mad at me?”

A porcelain coffee cup appears from nowhere in Veronica’s hand, filled with a dark brew that smells fantastic. “Oh, no. I refuse to go with the norm that dictates women should fight when a mutual interest is a huge douche.” Veronica adds a dollop of cream to the cup and hands it to Betty.

“I do believe pop culture calls that Chicks Before Dicks, and Archie is not a mutual interest.” Betty takes a sip and moans. “Seriously, fine china? Espresso? Where did you produce this from, Mary Poppins’s bag? And - V, I’m so sorry about what happened.”

“Why should you be? Archie is the one who screwed up, not you. He told me you also broke your foot off in his ass, so he’ll be walking funny for months.”

Betty gasps with sudden laughter, nearly spilling her espresso and clutching her sides. “You’re the best, V. I love you so much.”

“And I love you. Sometimes I wish I could be gay so we could just waft off into the sunset together. But no, I’ve got to spend the next few weeks torturing Archie instead.”

“Not to diminish what he did, but he is in trouble.” Betty sets her cup on the scarred linoleum table. “Did he tell you anything else?”

“What?” This, at last, shatters Veronica’s poise. “Trouble? He – what?”

Betty scoots closer and lowers her voice. “His dad could lose the family business. I hate to say this, but I think he was afraid to say anything, that you might freak out if you knew.” A tear slips over Veronica’s cheek at the news, and Betty scrambles for a tissue. “It’s just that he doesn’t know how strong you are,” she whispers. “Or maybe he forgot?”

Veronica cups Betty’s face and closes her eyes. “I was afraid to tell him too. That it happened to me. That we lost everything, even our clothes. I went from queen to serf in a moment.” She touches the Kleenex to one corner of her eye and adds, “Also, when did our discussion become a screenplay by Ibsen?”

With a watery chuckle, Betty grips Ronnie’s hand. She’s about to offer a plan to get Andrews Construction up and running when a group of students bursts inside the lounge.

“Tell him,” Cheryl intones in her doll-like inflection that somehow hints at furious danger. “Tell him again.”

“She says you can’t back out,” Ginger declares.

“Yeah, well, F that.” Chuck kicks the trashcan, and Betty’s umbrella falls onto the floor with a clatter. “Your fucking chamber of horrors is fucking haunted. I’m out.” After another vicious kick, Chuck leaves and slams the door to the lounge behind him.

Betty stands up and grabs her backpack. “V, I definitely want to continue this conversation, but there’s something I need to do first. See you at lunch? Oh my gosh, you’re the best. Love you.”

Abandoning the umbrella, she dashes after Cheryl through the crowded hallway. Her shout earns her Cheryl's attention and the patented Blossom look, an up-and-down assessment that always makes Betty rethink her outfit. “Well?” Cheryl says. “What do you want? I don't have time for your nonsense.”

Her chest heaving, Betty waves one hand in the air. “No. No nonsense. You need someone to watch your house, right? Well, I can help you with that.”

#

Throughout the day, Betty can’t help checking her phone. She’s hoping Jughead will call and she can give him her news, but the screensaver (a tabby cat with its tongue out) stays silent. When she goes into the library, Betty sits at the same table with her pile of books where Jughead once found her, but no one ever appears.

Afternoon classes seem to take forever. Betty’s tutoring session runs late, and there’s a cheerleading meeting she can’t skip. Veronica’s fingers press on her wrist, and a second later a corner of deckle-edged stationery slides under Betty’s arm. _Calm down,_ V has written in her exquisite script. _You’re jumpier than Vivien Leigh in A Streetcar Named Desire._

_You're right,_ Betty responds. _Also, I have the bestest best friend ever._

The instant the meeting is done, Betty runs to her truck. It’s still raining, her umbrella is gone, the parking lot is filled with mud, but she’s got a huge smile on her face.

She can’t wait to tell Jughead that the job has actually come through.

The truck takes forever to start, and she has to look under the hood to fiddle with the engine. Every traffic light on the way turns red. For five unendurable miles Betty gets behind a snail-like bus.

By the time she finally, finally arrives at the trailer, Betty is dripping with sweat. Impatiently she swipes her face with the tail of her baseball shirt and hops out of the truck. Her heart pounds as she bounds up the steps and bangs on the door.

“Juggie?”

From the trailer next to his, a face pops out. For a moment Betty thinks it’s an elf, or a very intelligent monkey. Then the kid sticks out his tongue and yells, “Na, na, na NA na!”

A gusty giggle escapes her at his impish audacity. The kid’s head disappears.

No one answers when Betty knocks again. She calls one more time, and that’s when she realizes the handle turns easily under her palm.

“Jug?”

Betty opens the door.

And.

Freezes.

Jughead is in the hallway leading to his tiny bedroom. He’s tangled with a girl who has long, red hair. If Betty could think straight, she’d guess it came down to her hips.

It’s then that he looks up and sees Betty, painted with mud and shock in his doorway. His eyes turn colder than she’s ever seen, and deliberately he tightens his hold on the girl. “Get out,” Jughead says. “We’re busy.”

“Yeah, busy.” The redhead kisses his neck.

Betty has been raised to be polite and respectful. It doesn’t always work that way for her, but in that dreadful, acidic instant, she’s slammed into obedience. When she nods and says _Okay,_ she can barely recognize her own voice.

Open the door. Walk down the steps. Press one hand over her heart, as if it could stop the way it flutters so madly inside her chest.

“Oh, by the way,” Betty turns around to see a shirtless Jughead in the door of his trailer. “You know now much you hate me right now, princess? Wish you never met me, right? Well, chew on this - I’m the one who has your virginity, and you can never get it back.”

This, of all things, propels Betty to action. She slams the truck shut, leaps up the steps, and braces both fists on the trailer doorframe. “Virginity is a societal concept invented by the patriarchy!” she shouts.

Jughead’s jaw drops. The redhead lets go of his waist, frowns, and points at Betty. “Huh,” the girl says. “I never thought about it before, but you’re right. That’s really true.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know. I hate me too.


	7. Trouble

Instead writing his latest chapter, Jughead has scribbled iterations of a name on a piece of old composition paper.  _Betty,_ he scratches in careful capitals. _Elizabeth, Betsy, Betts, Beth, Lizzie, Eliza. Lambchop._ The pen clatters out of his fingers, and he rubs his eyes with one hand.

How the hell can he avoid his Serpent-mandated hook-up on Friday?

The gang members have had his back whenever he’s run into money problems. The last favor they delivered was a complete avoidance of the state’s Childhood Services in the Jones’ case, and in return Jughead has promised total obedience.

He shoves the manuscript aside, stands up, and grabs his keys. There’s a phone booth on the other side of the trailer park, hardly ever used in these days of iPhone 8’s and Galaxies. Jughead heads outside and lopes across the park, ignoring loud arguments and blasts of music. By the time he reaches the other end he’s out of breath and has to bend over with both hands on his knees to recover.

_Maybe,_ he thinks, _it’s time to give up the smokes._ Six months without the damn things and he’ll have enough for his own phone.

Filled with grand plans, Jughead stands up, folds back the graffiti-covered door to the booth, and sees a silver cord limp as alien intestines hanging from the wall.

Some SunnySide wit has severed the receiver.

Curses spool from his mouth. Jughead has to talk to Betty _now_. He wants to tell her about the Serpent-sponsored date, listen to the solution she’ll surely offer. Or, and he gasps with the audacity of it, maybe they’ll make plans to jump into her truck and get the hell out of Southside and Riverdale altogether.

Talking to her in his mind won’t fix the stupid phone. Doubling back, Jughead stops when he remembers he’s in a trailer park filled with hundreds of people, and one of them has to have a phone he can use.

He’s spent his life keeping to himself at Sunnyside, not talking to neighbors. For the first time, Jughead picks a mobile home, raises one fist, and bangs on the door.

It opens right away. A guy of about Jughead’s age stands in the door, dripping needle in his hand. He’d be beautiful without the ravages of drugs and hopelessness.

“Sorry, my dude. All out,” the kid slurs, “unless you want seconds.” He waves the hypodermic and nearly falls over.

Jughead backs away, nearly falling off the step. “Uh, never mind,” he says.

#

Jughead has learned how to bum rides by timing the hitch – the trick is to wait until traffic is thin and hope for a truck. Single cars are too risky, but truckers have schedules and work rules.

He gets on a supply rig heading north and makes it into Riverdale. It’s easy enough to cut across town, ignoring the smells from Pops and the pizzeria beside an old bowling alley. “Sorry,” Jughead tells his rumbling stomach. “I’ll hook you up later, old pal.”

By the time he reaches Betty’s neighborhood, the stars are out. A few sulky snowflakes swirl against the sky, creating a pattern Jughead would love to paint with words. He can put that off as well until he throws a few pebbles at Betty’s window and talk to her about his dilemma.

Jughead can almost hear her voice. “It’ll be okay, Baby Boy,” she’ll murmur in his ear. “We’re going to figure it out. You’re safe for now with me.” And if the time is right, he’ll go on his knees, lick I LOVE YOU onto her elegant little slit, and let her figure that one out. Betty, he’s certain, will pick up his little message instantly.

However, he’s not the first one to arrive at The Coopers.

Jughead sees the ladder beside the side of the house. It leans against an open window, and he bets he knows who’s inside.

_Why, Miss Cooper,_ he thinks. _How convenient - for me._

About to climb, Jughead’s thumbnail scratches a letter inscribed on the side: A. A for Andrews. And as the pieces click into place, he hears voices from the room.

“…A golden era of communication,” Betty is saying.

“Can I close the window? It’s freezing.” It’s a guy’s voice, the redheaded kid Jughead met at Pops. He’s the same one who joined that dumb burger-eating contest and who dared to look at Betty with hungry eyes.

A moment later the window slams shut, and Jughead is cut out of the pair’s conversation. His heart squeezes. _It doesn’t mean anything,_ Jughead reasons. _She’s Betty Cooper. She’s talking to Archie._

The grass, iced with cold and snow, crunches under his motorcycle boots as he steps back to look up. Inside the room, glowing like a magic lantern inside a bazaar, Betty and Archie face each other. It’s obvious that they’re deep in conversation. Betty’s expressive face is lit with interest in what she says, her arms waving to emphasize a point. Archie listens, towering over her with his athlete’s build. Jughead has to admit the guy is handsome as a fairytale prince.

_Doesn’t mean a thing,_ he thinks again. _They’re best friends. And you’re the creeper for staying here and watching her in the shadows._

Jughead’s about to leave, maybe hide in the treehouse until Ron Weasely gets the hell out of Dodge, when the two figures merge in a hug.

_Doesn’t mean anything. They’re friends. It means nothing._

And then Archie dips his head and kisses her.

A gasp tears out of Jughead’s throat. He spins on one heel and runs out of Betty’s yard. It hurts to breathe. It hurts like a knife to the lungs.

He can feel his face crumple, sense tears on his cheeks. Jughead hasn’t let himself cry since his mom took off with Jellybean, and he’s forgotten how awful sadness feels. It’s a metal snake coiled in his belly, he thinks, poisoning him from the inside out. His mind refuses to accept what he just saw, echoing _She wouldn’t, she wouldn’t, she wouldn’t…_

Except she did.

#

“You look like hell,” Toni says. She pulls out sandwich and offers him half.

Jughead flips her the bird. Even though school’s still going on and teachers are all over the place, he pulls out a Marlboro, expertly one-thumb lights a match, and takes a deep drag. Toni doesn’t comment, concentrating on her sandwich. “My cousin’s useless, except she makes damn good paninis. I mean, fresh mozzarella and turkey? Plus some green stuff. I don’t know what it is, but I’ll eat it all day long.”

“Yeah.” Jughead blows out a long stream of smoke and avoids her reaching arm when she tries to get his cigarette for a drag. “Fuck off, Topaz. Just let me smoke in peace.”

“Except the Ripper is coming out any second, and she’ll smell your pollution. And maybe confiscate my sandwich.” Shaking her head at that dreadful thought, Toni takes another massive bite and full-body chews. “Mmm, Lord in heaven. This is goo-ood. Sure you don’t want some?”

He can’t bear it any longer. Jughead throws down his Marlboro, stands up, and stomps viciously on the glowing butt. “I’m out,” he announces.

Halfway down the sidewalk he’s stopped by an imperious fist on his sleeve. “Aw, hell no,” Toni says. “What’s up? And don’t say Nothing. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” Jughead explodes, “except I have to hook up with some chick tonight for the Serpents, and I really don’t feel like it.”

“Oh.” Toni wads the sandwich foil in a ball and overhands it into a trashcan. “And you’re thinking about your Vixen, right?”

Jughead squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t, he simply can’t deal.

“Woah.” Her arms slide around him. “Okay,” Toni whispers in his ear. “What’s really up?”

With a few gulps and hiccups, he admits something happened. His voice stutters as he explains it was some redhead from Riverdale, Betty’s best friend, and Jughead was watching the whole thing, and they might have kissed, or the guy kissed her, he doesn’t know because he left, and it sucks the big one raw.

Toni stops him, her mouth open. “Redhead? Really? Dude, you know what would be perfect?”

“What.” Jughead really doesn’t care.

“We nail those two fireboxes I was telling you about.”

“Firebox – oh, my god. Really? You’re such a douche, Topaz.” Still, she’s made the grinding ache inside his chest subside a little bit, to an almost tolerable level.

“I know.”

“But you’ve forgotten I have to do this Serpents ‘Virgin Surgeon’ thing or whatever.” Jughead shakes his head. “I can appreciate the ironic symmetry, but it’s not going to happen."

“Aha. But you’d be in otherwise?” Toni produces a package of Red Vines and pushes three of them into her mouth. “Well, guess what. The Serpents owe me a favor. And the cute little twins I’ve been talking about have some info that would be very useful, very snake-worthy.” The licorice reels into her lips as she talks as though she’s eating a red squid. Jughead watches with horrified fascination. “And I could get your Surgeon duty transmuted to my firebox duo.”

“Stop calling them fireboxes.” But she’s trying, and Jughead appreciates her Topaz-take on sympathy. “It’s just … I just…”

“Look. Your vixen chick hooked up with someone. It happens. Are you going to sit around and eat ice cream out of a carton while you cry over The Notebook, or are you going to be pro-active?”

There’s something wrong with what she’s saying, but Jughead can’t focus. After a sleepless night and no food, all he wants to do is forget. “I guess it would be like pizza,” he agrees as he steals a few Red Vines out of Toni’s pocket. “Even when sex is bad, it’s still pretty great.”

She cracks a sharp laugh and slugs his shoulder. “That’s my dude, back from the dead. Excellent. I’ll be at your trailer tonight with the goods.”

#

_“I really like it here.”_

Jughead can still remember the way Betty spoke in his shitty little trailer, eyes bright and a dimple in her cheek as she looked around the tiny space. Sincerity had radiated from her, his own cherry princess. He can still feel what it felt like, the way he could hardly wait to get her in his bed.

He groans, slumps on the old couch, and pulls off the beanie. _I can’t go through with this,_ Jughead thinks.

If he can just make his way back to Betty and talk to her. Maybe it was all a misunderstanding. Maybe she and the Outlander had just been rehearsing for a play – Romeo and Juliet, for example.

Hope spills through him like warm maple syrup. Yes. He’ll talk to her, use his words, figure out what happened. As for the twin thing – well, Toni will just have to understand. She can double-team them and take pictures for the Whyte Worm horndogs – they’d probably love it. And Jughead will owe her a kidney or his first-born, or at least a month’s worth of lunches. Somehow he’ll make it up to her.

The scene he saw the night before meant nothing, he muses. _Been acting like a fainting heroine, Jones,_ he tells himself sternly. _Time for a quick PB &J, and then you can get your shit together._

He slouches to the fridge, pulls out sandwich fixings. The bread is nearly gone, so he uses the crust as one slice. Peanut butter in the cabinet, knife in the drawer. Jughead hums, slaps grape jam on the bread, decides to add a sliced-up banana and a side of potato chips. He hasn’t eaten all day, after all. “I’m a growing adolescent,” Jughead says to the empty trailer. “No wonder I’m in the dumps, with no food…”

“Talking to yourself?” A large hand claps his shoulder. Jughead gasps and turns around, his heart racing. FP is in the kitchenette, eyeing the sandwich on Jughead’s plate. “Can’t spare half for your old man, I don’t suppose?”

“Dad.” Jughead laughs with relief. “You scared the shit out of me. Jesus! Knock much? And yes, you can have a few bites.”

“Knock? In my own house?” FP grins and feels in his jacket. “You’ll owe me the whole plate when you see this.” Brandishing a flat box, he shakes it under Jughead’s nose. “Ta-da! A bunch of phones fell off the back of a truck last night, and I got one for you. Call it a late Christmas present or early birthday, or whatever. Anyway, surprise.”

Jughead pushes the plate towards his dad. “Really? This is for me?”

“You still have to get a whachamacallit, a phone plan or whatever .” FP opens the box, pulls out the phone, and hands it to his son. “ATT data doesn’t fall off the back of trucks, unfortunately.”

“Yeah, I guess not.”

“You happy about the new phone?”

“Yeah, dad. Thanks.”

FP take a huge bite of sandwich and shakes his head. “I might be the last possible contender for father of the year, but you’re definitely not happy. You’ve got worries, I think.”

_Huh._ Somehow FP has reached through the beer-soaked mist and seen inside his son’s heart.

Jughead steals the last of the chips and nods. For the second time he explains his little date with the firebox twim, how he really doesn’t want to do it, how there’s been a mistake, a big mistake. “I need to make things right,” he adds. “What I saw in Betty’s bedroom was a misunderstanding, right? Yeah, it has to be.”

With a quick movement, FP pushes back his chair so violently it flies across the kitchen. He stands and leans into Jughead’s face. “You’re telling me the bitch you’re banging sucked face with someone else? No, listen to me. You are a prince. You’re my son. You can have anyone you want. And if you let her slide on this, what’s next? You look through a window and see her in bed with the guy? With _two_ guys?”

Just the thought makes Jughead grunt, double over as if he’s about to vomit. “No,” he begs. “Dad, stop. Please.”

FP’s large hands slap onto the table. “Look at you, falling apart. This isn’t the Jughead I know – you always had a dozen chicks lined up. Christ, they used to fight each other to be next.”

“I hated that scene, don’t you get it?” Jughead’s about to explain that everything has changed, when there’s a knock on the door.

“Hey.” Toni pokes her head into the trailer, flanked by one of the knock-out twins. “Juggie, meet Brenda.”

“Hey!” FP stands up and strides forward. He’s always been fond of her. “Toni Topaz, it’s been way too long. Brenda, huh?”

#

When he was five, Jughead’s mother took him to a carnival in Riverdale. It was the Maple Festival or some other made-up holiday, complete with Pancake Queens and funnel cake. He remembers lemon soda, French fries, and ice cream. There was a petting zoo and pony rides. And after he begged for what felt like hours, Gladys finally Jughead go on the Himalayan.

He remembers loud music, a badly-painted backdrop of women with huge boobs, and closing his eyes when the ride began. Some trick of the motion, or maybe it had been the light, made him think the rickety seat spun forwards. And when he opened his eyes a crack, he realized the creaky, carnival ride actually moved _backwards._ It was like being slammed into a new dimension.

#

Before FP leaves with Toni, he whispers a fervent piece of advice in Jughead’s ear: “If you can’t get it up or whatever, just remember you’re getting revenge and standing up for yourself.”

“Jesus. This is embarrassing enough. _Out.”_

FP and Toni leave, their laughter audible through the thin walls. Jughead’s alone with the little readhead, who tilts her head on one side like a bird waiting for a crumb. Jughead closes his eyes just as he did on that ride years before, and kisses the girl.

Brenda.

Making out with her is fine. He can do this. Except if she plays with her hair one more time, Jughead thinks, he’s going to freak and throw his new phone through a window.

_Look at you, falling apart. You’re a prince. You want to see her in bed with a guy?_

He grabs Brenda’s hands, pulls them over her head and holds them against the wall so she can’t twist her fucking hair into a fucking braid.

It’s almost okay. He can almost forget who he is.

Until the door opens, and Jughead stops kissing Brenda, and the whole situation is spinning backwards.

Betty’s mouth is slack with shock, those pretty lips parted. Her eyes are too bright, and her chest rises and falls under the baseball shirt she has on.

Betty is luminescent as a Renaissance portrait in an unzipped hoodie, workout shorts, and that damn baseball shirt. He can see one of her socks is falling into her shoe. How dare she look so beautiful?

Did she look that gorgeous in Archie’s arms? Taste like mint and warm tongue? Jughead opens his mouth and hears dumb words fall out of his dumb, stupid mouth about how he and Brenda are busy.

“Okay.” It’s all she says.

Okay? Okay, what? Okay that Archie kissed her? Okay that Jughead’s being a complete asshole right now? Okay that she’s walked out of the trailer without even fighting for him?

He breaks out of Brenda’s embrace and yanks open the door. Betty stands beside her truck, bent over the keys, one wing of blonde hair hiding her face. The winter air is red and trembling with emotion, and Jughead shouts the worst thing he can come up with.

Betty looks up, and her eyes finally come alive. She leaps back up the steps and yells the finest line Jughead’s ever heard about virginity and the patriarchy.

His jaw drops open. Christ, he loves her so much, except she’s hurt him. He’s hurt her. How can they ever find their way back?

Surprisingly, it’s Brenda who brings him back to reality and makes everything stop spinning backwards. “You two are staring at each other like, I don’t know, magnetic Legos or Romeo and Juliet or something,” she says. “I’m out.” The girl stops, kisses Betty on the cheek, and adds, “I like what you just said. Get my number from Jug if you want to hang out.”

The trailer gets very still after Brenda leaves. Jughead can hear himself breathe. As for Betty, she stands like an ice maiden: windblown and glorious. He wants to touch her with the merest brush of one fingertip, flesh to flesh, to reassure himself they’re both still alive.

But when he moves towards her, Betty retreats against the far wall of the old Airstream. “Are you kidding? You were literally kissing another girl a second ago.”

Her emotion uncorks his. “And you were perfectly innocent, right?” Jughead stalks forward and splays one hand on the wood paneling beside her head. “Been doing everything you’re supposed to? Never being bad, isn’t that right? Right?”

They stare at each other. Jughead focuses on the beautiful line of her jaw, the plump pillow of her lower lip. He wants to bite it. He wants to pick her up and throw her on his bed, have her in a thousand different ways. He wants to push inside her and push her out of his home and never see her again.

Betty finally moves, a mere arch of one eyebrow. “I get it now,” she says in a deceptively quiet voice. “You were there that night when Archie kissed me. I thought I saw a figure in the shadows. And, since you didn’t ask, I didn’t kiss him back. No – just shut your mouth and listen. I wanted you there more than anything last night, and I waited for your call or for you to show up at my window, but Archie appeared instead. Do you know how disappointing that was? I wanted _you,_ Juggie. And by the way, you would have realized all of this if you had just _talked_ to me.” Her eyes focus on his, as though there’s no one else in the world except them, and one slow tear spills onto her cheek. “Don’t you trust me at all?”

“No no no no.” Jughead reaches out to touch her face, but she turns away. He huffs out a long groan and swipes both hands over his face. “Betty. I did want to ask you, with real words the way real humans do, except my dad showed up and it all got mixed up in my head.” She puts her hands over her ears, but he reaches out and pulls them into his, knotting their fists together like a mutual heart between their chests. “The Serpents told me I had to service one of their interests tonight, and I couldn’t bear it. That’s why I was at your house – not to spy on you, but because I needed you too, the same way you need me.”

She whimpers something about getting him a job, but his word volcano won’t stop. “And I was so lost, so fucked up,” Jughead babbles, “but I was still going to talk to you, except every damn payphone in Southside was broken. So I hitched a ride, walked the rest of the way, and that Archie guy was in your room looking like a pro-athlete or a superhero. And I don’t know how I got home. The next day Toni offered me the date with Brenda instead of the Southside hookup, and then my dad said… he said I should get revenge by nailing Brenda.”

“And by that point,” Betty sobs, “logic was upside-down and what he said actually made sense to you.”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Before he knows what he’s doing Jughead is on his knees, wrapping both arms around her waist and pressing his wet face into Betty’s old baseball shirt. It smells like smoke, not from cigarettes but a warm fireplace on a cold night filled with snow. “Punish me all you want,” he chokes, “but just please don’t go. Don’t go. Stay with me, Princess.”

For a long pause neither one moves.

Her fingers finally settle in his hair and tug at the wild curls, a grounding pain. “Baby Boy,” Betty says brokenly. “You are in so much trouble.”


	8. Wish

Betty curls her fingers into Jughead’s hair. He leans into the touch, responsive as a cat. His face is still pressed into her shirt, and he rubs his nose against the soft cotton.

She waits. Music plays outside on some shitty little resister, and a faraway ambulance howls its Doppler song. Betty likes those sounds, the soft purr of downtrodden suburbia.

Her moment comes when Jughead curls a thumb under the hem of her shirt and furtively strokes her hipbones. Betty tugs, making him look up at her. The black strands fall off his brow, and his eyes are dark with want. Never has he appeared so young, nor so beautiful.

“Did you really think you would be allowed to touch my skin?” Betty murmurs. “We have a lot of ground to cover before you can even think of that.”

“But …”

Jughead is about to stand, but she presses him back to his knees. “First,” she says, “you kissed someone else. You’d have had sex with her, too, if I hadn’t arrived. _And_ you didn’t trust me.”

“I know.” Jughead squeezes his eyes shut. “I planned to talk to you, but then my dad got in my head and everything was all twisted.”

“And that’s the worst part.” Betty takes a deep breath, knowing she has to be merciless if they’re going to survive. “You didn’t trust _yourself_ , Juggie. No one out there wants us to be together, and if we listen to their noise you and I will fall apart. Do you want that?” She tugs his collar, a signal he can get up. “Do you?”

“Christ, you’re so beautiful.”

He reaches for her, but Betty slaps his hand aside. “I told you – no touching. And don’t even think of using your safeword.” Jughead swears, turns, and raises his fist. Obviously he’s about to put it through the thin wall, and Betty’s not having that. “I’m getting in my car,” she adds in the deadliest tone she can muster, “and I will leave if you punch the trailer. And you will never see me again.”

“No!” Jughead spins and brackets her against the tiny hallway with his arms. Betty notices, however, he's listened and doesn't touch her.

Good. She can work with that.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Betty orders. “You’re going to strip out of those clothes – wipe that smirk off your face, it’s not what you think – and get a shower. Scrub every inch. I want you clean.  I want you new. I want you," she add, "to be mine.”

“I _am_ yours.” Jughead emphasizes the second word by darting his face closer, but they still doesn’t touch. “And after?”

She actually hasn’t thought that far. They need to talk about the job at Thornhill and figure out how the logistics involved. First, though, he must purge himself of Brenda’s touch.

Outside, a woman yells to a kid called Sporty that it’s time for bed. _Bed,_ Betty thinks. One final ray of orange light filters through the old lace curtains, and she knows exactly what they’re going to do.

She jerks her head at the back of the trailer. After practice and a long day of school, it’s tempting to join him in the shower – but he hasn’t earned that either. Instead, Betty waits until Jughead disappears and hops into the kitchen. There she turns on the sink, peels off her clothes, and prepares for Phase One.

#

Betty washes off and changes into her cheerleader uniform, since it’s the only alternative in her backpack. She cooks the last of his food, a single pack of ramen, and poured the soup into a mug.

_Thud._

She turns and sees Jughead gaping at her, a book splayed in defeat on the floor by his left foot. “Betts, are you trying to kill me?” He indicates the cheerleading skirt.

Ignoring the question, she sits down and crooks one finger. He’s not allowed to join her at the table. Instead, Betty makes him kneel on the floor beside her and open his mouth.

“Careful,” she cautions, holding out the spoon. “Tell me if it’s too hot.”

Jughead is so good, so obedient, as he eats the soup she’s made for them. He’s dark and dangerous at her feet, her own defiled knight, making her heart swell with pride. Her eyes prickle with tears, watching him. “You’re so perfect, Baby Boy,” she says. “I know today was hard for both of us, but if you work with me we’ll get through it.”

He swallows, purple shadows very evident on his pale skin. “Promise?”

“I promise.” Betty feeds him half the soup and pushes away the mug. She smoothes her hand over his flannel sleeve to reward him for how good he’s being.

Jughead melts into her touch, eyes closing and head tipped back. “I want you,” he hisses.

“Not going to happen tonight, sorry.” Betty hopes he doesn’t guess how her body responds automatically to his suggestion.

“Betty.” He raises both palms, eyebrows up, and she nods. Carefully he places his hands on her thighs where her short skirt covers smooth skin. “It’s who I am. Girls came over here and I fucked them. I’ve never dated, never had a girlfriend, certainly never dreamed of courting anyone. If you and I don’t go to bed, what the hell else are we going to do?”

She grins and pats the chair next to hers at the table. “You’re going to need to get comfortable for the next part. Don’t worry, I won’t make you take out the family photographs again.”

Warily Jughead slides his fingers off her skirt and stands. Betty nods, and he sits at the very edge of his seat. “Embroidery?” he suggests. “Watercolors? A game of bridge, perhaps?”

Relief bolts through her veins at the sight of his usual cheeky grin. Betty stretches out her legs, rubs one sneakered toe against Jughead’s sock, and clasps her hands behind her head. “You,” she declares, “are going to tell me a story.”

#

“The story is called - Wish. That's right," he emphasizes, Wish. I wish I knew you since we were children. I wish we grew up together, first as – rivals, that’s it. I wish we competed in a writing competition in second grade. I won, of course.”

Jughead winks, and Betty laughs. “You wish. And then we became friends?”

“Shh. I thought you were annoying, always hanging around. I wanted to start a club, the, uh…”

“The Serpents,” Betty supplies.

“Okay, the Serpents. We were going to go on adventures. But in the end only one person showed up to the first meeting, and it was you. Everyone else had forgotten about my club.”

“Did we go on an adventure?”

“Fuck yeah we did. We pretended we were in a hot air balloon, flying to the North Pole. But our balloon got blown off course, and we ended up inside the Northern Lights, which had a whole city in there. Next we fought vampires, armed with wooden stakes, and after that I rescued you from the Dark Fairy Queen.” Betty clears her throat pointedly, and he hastens to add, “That is, you rescued _me_ from the Queen armed only with a – a cardboard sword. And so, eventually, we became best friends.”

“Mm.” Betty smiles. “And then what happened?”

“We grew up and went to high school. You were a cheerleader, and I was that weirdo no one wanted to sit next to in lunch, except for you. We always shared a sandwich, and you made me chocolate chip cookies. Lemon bars. Something called scones I didn’t want to try until you forced me to and I realized heaven wasn’t complete without them. Once, a layer cake with chocolate frosting…”

“The story,” she prompts with a giggle.

“Right, sorry. It took one tiny instance to make me realize we weren’t just friends. Let’s see, maybe I noticed the lamplight on your face in the tree house one midnight, or perhaps the way you wept over a lost pet. When I saw you with tears sparkling on your cheeks, I finally knew I wanted more.”

Betty blinks. “This isn’t how I expected your story to turn out.”

“Hold on, I’m just getting started.” Jughead scoots closer and strokes the hem of her sleeve with his thumbnail. “I called you up the next day – no, first I practiced the phone call in my room. _Hello, Betty, would you like to go to the movies with me?_ or _Hey. Betts. You, me, movies. Make it happen._ But in the end I stumbled over my words and talked too fast, and you made me say it a few times before you understood.”

“And what was my answer?”

He smirks. “Yes. You said yes. And that Friday night I borrowed my dad’s car and picked you up with a little bunch of violets strangled in my fist. I kinda thrust them at you because I was embarrassed, but you looked at me as though it was the greatest bouquet you’d ever seen and put the flowers in a crystal vase. Then we drove to the show and sat in the balcony. I bought us drinks and a bucket of popcorn, and our fingers kept touching when we went for a bite. By the time the movie was over, the skin over your cheekbones was blush-pink.”

“Juggie.” Betty reaches out, recalls herself, and clasps both hands under her chin.

“And then we went for a milkshake, naturally. You got strawberry and I got vanilla. We split a burger and fries because I was running low on cash by that point, but you didn’t care – just smiled as though I’d taken you on the best date you’d ever been on. We talked way too long in our booth, and when Pops told us what time it is we had to rush to get you home before your curfew. I blew a red light so we could have an extra few minutes.”

“Why?”

“Can’t you guess?”

“Well,” Betty agrees, “perhaps I can.”

“That’s right. I parked Dad’s car, turned to you, and you said thanks for the movie. We stared at each other a little too long before I said your name, Betty. And you let me kiss you, and your lips parted for me like a rose. Like a fucking rose. Maybe we were clumsy, the way first kisses often are, and our noses bumped or my teeth bit your lip. But in the end, it was the best kiss ever.”

She squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head. Out in SunnySide Sporty has to come in right now and brush his teeth or his mother is going to scalp him, so help her God.

“Betts,” Jughead says earnestly and shakes her knee. “It’s only a story.”

“I know.” She bursts into tears.

#

Veronica brings croissants over for breakfast and sits next to Betty in the dining room. “I’d have snuck in some mimosas,” she says, “but Daddy seems to be on the prowl lately - ever since I told Archie to get out of my life and not ever come back, in fact.”

“What?” Betty puts down her pastry and takes a sip of coffee. “You broke up with Arch?”

“I don’t share.” Veronica dusts crumbs off her hands and delicately touches a napkin to each side of her lips. “And since Archibald seems incapable of wanting one woman at a time, I told him we were done. Oh, don’t look at me like that – I’ll be fine. It hurts, I’ll admit, but I of course I have prospects on the horizon.”

Betty cups her hand around Veronica’s phone and looks at the array of texts: _Yo gorgeous heard you single again, wassup for 2nite,_ and a plaintive _Please, Ronnie. I’m so so so sorry._

“But you two were in love!” Guilt pours through Betty’s bones like ice. “I hate to think…”

“You had nothing to do with it.” Veronica’s hand covers hers. “It’s not your fault if he can’t be faithful. Now, got any ideas for the fundraisers next month?”

“Of course. I’ve got a file upstairs of possibilities. Car wash, bake sale, and I could offer an engine maintenance session with my dad as a prize …” Betty stops talking about Vixen issues and throws her arms around Veronica. “I love you, V. Archie’s such an idiot. He had the best girlfriend in the world and couldn’t even see it.”

“I'll survive.” Veronica detaches herself and smoothes her hair. “Archie knows he screwed up, obviously, and all the miserable song lyrics in the world couldn’t fix it.”

“He wrote songs for you?”

“Well.” Veronica takes a final sip of coffee and stands up. “I’d call them dirges, although he informed me they were, indeed, songs. But let’s forget about him and look at your folder of ideas – which I already know is going to be stellar.”

Betty nods and reaches for Veronica’s hand. She’s about to lead the way upstairs to get out the Vixens notes, when her phone rings.

“Sorry,” Betty apologizes. “Just a second.” She stops when she sees words on the screen: CALLER ID UNKNOWN. “V, I think I have to…”

Veronica nudges her, and Betty grins. “Hello?” she says. “Is this – hey! I thought so. Did they fix the SunnySide pay phone… Oh! Okay, that’s excellent. Good for you. Can’t wait to hear all about it. And are you going to meet me this afternoon at – you’re there? Already? Then I’ll see you in a few hours. And by the way, I’ll bring dinner.”

“Mmhm.” Veronica watches as Betty slides the phone into her back pocket. “I take it we have a date?”

“We do.”

“Great. I’ll be at Thornhill around 8, and shall I bring your mom, or will you? Kidding, B. Totally kidding. But,” Veronica adds, “make sure you torture him a bit. I’m not feeling too charitable towards the male of the species.”

Betty claps Veronica’s shoulder. “V, I’ll do my very best.”

#

When Betty keys in the code Jughead has texted her, the gates to Thornhill swing open in slow silence. She drives in, feeling incongruous in her old truck amidst that Gothic beauty: formal gardens, classic barn, gazebos, pool house, the manse itself. It glowers at her from the top of the rise, a jealous and dark beauty in decline.

“The Eagle has landed,” Betty says into her phone. “I repeat, the Eagle has landed.”

“I read you loud and clear, Eagle I,” Jughead replies. “Swing around the house to the left, and park beside the smallest shack in this huge heap of marble.”

The early sunset tints the turrets and gables of the main house, almost making them look as though they are drenched in blood. Betty tuts at her own fancy as she follows his directions. Thornhill, she quickly determines, is prone to exploration and getting lost.

But she finds the tiny house after a few missed turns. Jughead waits for her there, leaning against the open door with his arms folded and signature smirk in place. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself,” Betty says as soon as she climbs down from the truck. “I nearly…oof!”

Jughead springs forward and captured her face in his palms. Before Betty knows what has happened, she’s being soundly frenched. “Princess,” he says against her lips. “I. Could. Not. Wait. To. See. You.” He punctuates each word with kisses, rife with passion yet soft at the same time. In contrast, he’s hard as iron against her belly, pressing forward with insolent fervor.

But Betty can be quick as well. She snaps one hand around Jughead’s neck and presses just hard enough to let him know she owns his breath and his air belongs to her. “Is this for me?” she asks, grinding deliberately against his erection.

“Fuck, yes.” Jughead drops his face into her neck. “Tell me you’re going to stay.”

“I’ll stay. But I don’t know if you deserve me just yet. How about your homework…”

“It’s all finished.”

“Oh.” As a reward, Betty drops her bags and goes on tiptoe to give him a kiss on the nose. “And everything you need to do here at Thornhill?”

“Inspected the house. Walked the perimeter. Set up the cameras. Checked the connections in case of an emergency.”

“See anything spooky?”

“No, Velma. The entire place is quiet.” Jughead draws her hand from his arm and replaces her fingers on his throat. “I like that,” he whispers. “You choking me. It’s grounding, as though I don’t have to make decisions for myself. I know you’ll take care of me.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He pulls her close and kisses her neck. “Say, would you do me the great favor of spending the night, Lambchop?”

Something's missing. Betty looks around and frowns. "Jug, where is your bike?"

"Oh. That." His brows crease. "I had to sell it to pay for a phone plan."


	9. Static

Jughead grumbles they could have had pizza, but he shuts up when the smell of roast chicken begins to waft through the house. His nose positively twitches as he watches her, intent on her process. “Parsley, huh? And potatoes? And what is that, cauliflower?”

Betty brandishes a sprout. “Back off, Jones. Go and finish your homework.”

Grumbling that he’s done with homework and she’s threatening him with vegetables, Jughead decides he could put in some time on his latest chapter. The kitchen settles into a friendly silence, broken only by the tapping of the keys on Jughead’s laptop and Betty’s knife on the chopping board.

In the far corner of the room, a few screens blink with silent and motionless images from inside Thornhill. The eyes of the house, cutting-edge cameras set into the walls, never sleep. Jughead has checked them a few times, following the instructions left for him when he first arrived at the cottage.

Betty announces dinner’s ready and places a large platter filled with the roast chicken, potatoes, cauliflower and gravy. Jughead closes his laptop and jerks his head towards the floor, wondering if he’s going to kneel next to her again, but Betty laughs and pulls out one of the two chairs with her foot. “No kneeling tonight,” she states. “I worked my butt off to make this dinner, and you’re going to enjoy it with every molecule of your being."

“Enjoy the food with every stomach molecule. Got it.” Jughead manages to stash his computer, move his chair as close as possible to Betty, and pluck a drumstick in one fluid motion.

“Hey!”

“You don’t understand.” Jughead waves the leg to make his point. “This is _food,_ Betts. Real food, not ramen or a PB &J. It’s been a while since I had dinner that didn’t come in a carton or out of a packet.”

“That is tragic. I think you’re a born foodie, Jug, being slowly suffocated by over-processed junk.”

“Speaking of that.” Jughead adds more gravy and spears a perfectly-browned potato. “Ramen was pretty good the other night, as I recall.”

“When I fed you?” She picks up a thin slice of chicken, holds it out, and smiles as he eats. “We were in our own little bubble. I want to do that again – maybe with waffles, tomorrow morning, except you’ll be in bed as I feed you instead of on the floor. I, Betty Cooper, promise to make you the best bacon you’ve ever had.”

Jughead puts down his fork and folds her hands into his. They fit together just right.

“Jug,” Betty whispers.

“Yeah?” The moment is becoming loaded, warm with the weight of what’s building inside him.

“Your chicken is getting cold.”

He laughs, releases her, and eats until Betty takes away the platter of chicken, ignoring his loud complaints. “You’re going to explode, and besides I have plans for this chicken. It’ll be soup tomorrow.”

“I have plans for _this_ chicken. What do you think about that?” Jughead sneaks his foot between hers under the table.

“I think,” Betty replies primly, “that your cheesy pick-up lines have made a reappearance. Really? Were you about to segue into leg, thigh, and breast?”

Arguing that he can segue with the best of them, Jughead allows himself to be towed away from the table. “We’re going to check out Thornhill,” Betty orders. “I want to make sure everything’s locked up securely. Plus I’m curious about what Chuck said at school.”

“Who’s Chuck?” Jughead pulls on his leather jacket in one fluid motion. “Do I need to kick his ass?”

“A guy at my school, the one who was originally supposed to have this job. He said he there was something weird going on here at Thornhill and backed out, so I want to know what he saw.”

“Why don’t you just ask him?”

“Because he’s the one I tried my S&M on first, with disastrous results, as I told you.”

“Oh.” Jughead looks down at her, his princess, all blond perfection on the surface with so many layers underneath. Betty’s eyes are bright with what he knows is determined curiosity. “In that case, the hell with him. Let’s do some sleuthing.”

#

Thornhill’s front doors are massive, locked with a huge brass key as well as several series of digital alarms. Jughead avoids them and goes to a small entrance around the back, probably used by caterers and cleaning staff during formal events at the huge manse. It leads into a long, dark passage with doors on both sides, remarkably plain for such a luxurious estate.

“The Vanderbuilt era.” Betty trails one gloved finger over the walls, tries a random doorknob. “Maids and butlers were relegated to this passageway while the rich whooped it up in the main house.”

“…Which we are about to check out.” Jughead opens the final door and stands back. “Welcome to the freak show, madam. Check your vampire’s cape along with your privilege over here.”

She grins and walks into the massive living room, flanked with stone griffins and huge candlesticks designed to hold eight tapers at a clip. The far wall is taken up by a fireplace nearly as large as Jughead’s bedroom.

Betty looks around and shivers. “Think you could live here?”

“Hell no. I’d expect a dozen skeletons to tumble out each time I opened a closet.”

“Yeah, me too. I’ll stick with SunnySide.” The click of her phone echoes, making him jump as Betty snaps a picture of the fireplace. “Just in case there’s something hidden in the chimney,” she explains.

“I really think it’s just a house, and that’s just a hearth, there’s no madwoman in the attic, and those bookshelves aren’t hiding a secret room.”

“I know. But wouldn’t it be cool if they were?”

Jughead watches as she takes another picture, and unbearable want grips him. He needs her in his bed, riding him and telling him what to do. She can hold his wrists while she leans over, teasing and maybe allowing him a taste… Plus, there’s an important message he still needs to write down there. “Hey Lambchop,” he comments as casually as possible, “tour over? Ready to head back?”

“We’ve only just started.” Betty is positively skipping as she heads into the bowels of the main house, and with a drawn-out sigh Jughead follows.

As he’s predicted, the ground floor is shut up tightly. All the bedrooms are closed as well, most locked with keys not on the ring in his pocket. Jughead smirks at Betty’s frown when she realizes she can’t get into every room. “Not,” she adds, “that I want to be a creeper.”

“No, of course not,” Jughead sympathizes. “You just want to make certain the place is secure.”

The smile she bestows on him is dazzling, and as they head to the top floor Jughead realizes he’s having fun. With a girl. And they're not even in bed.

He already knows he’s gone for Betty, but in a swift moment of clarity as she opens another door with his keys, Jughead knows he _likes_ her too. He likes her complicated and difficult personality, the way she keeps everything ordered except for the inner workings of her mind. It makes him want to explore her, much as they are exploring Thornhill.

“Attic?” Jughead suddenly exclaims. “Why are we in the attic?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe we’ll see some evidence or clues to explain why Chuck freaked out.” Her nose twitches as she looks around and switches on a flashlight app. Its beam picks up the usual attic fare: boxes, piles of books, large containers marked Halloween and Christmas.

“Wait.” Jughead tilts the phone to a back corner. “What’s that?”

There’s another door, barely visible behind all the stored items. Betty doesn’t hesitate. She picks her way between locked trunks and leather suitcases to the door, carefully twists the handle, and looks inside.

“Hello!” a voice says, shriveling Jughead’s balls. What the hell? Has Betty been right – _is_ there a madwoman in the attic after all?

When they enter, an old woman sits in a wheelchair, hair meticulously groomed, one eye cast with disease or age. She wears a lace shirt and more diamonds than Jughead has ever seen in one place.

“Oh my gosh,” Betty exclaims. “I’m so sorry – do you live here? We didn’t mean to burst into your home.”

“No intrusion. So nice to see you again.”

Betty and Jughead exchange a startled look. “We’ve never been…”

“Nonsense. You visit me every week. We have tea.” The lady picks up a silver bell, rings it, and sits back. “I always order fresh scones and cucumber sandwiches. But sit down and let me look at you and your young man. We can celebrate your recent engagement!”

Jughead chokes, but Betty ignores him. “Do you need anything?”

“My lady’s absolutely fine.” An offended-looking woman in a maid’s uniform – she even wears a frilled hat – whisks into the attic room. She is even more gaunt, if possible, than the woman in the wheelchair. “You’re fine, Mrs. Rose,” the maid repeats in a louder voice.

Mrs. Rose, if that is her name, frowns. “No, I’m not. I want to entertain my guests. They came all this way, just to see me. My guess is they want to hear all about my party.”

“There’s no party. I’ve told you a thousand times, there - is - no - party.” The maid’s face grows closer to Mrs. Rose’s visage with each word she says until they lean into each other like aggressive bookends.

“I will definitely come to your party, Mrs. Rose,” Betty declares. “Um, do either of you need anything? We had no idea you were here – do you have food, water…”

“There’s a full kitchen upstairs. Mrs. Rose doesn’t like to leave the house, so the floor has been renovated.” The maid sniffs. “She lives more safely and happily here in the attics than many a Christian.”

Jughead feels laughter bubble inside. “Betts, we should go.”

“Yes, but – seriously, if you need anything at all, just let us know. We’re at the caretaker’s cottage, so you can just call me. Or Jug, if I’m not around.” Betty has become, he sees, the capable girl he first saw in the high school library when Mr. Weatherbee nearly caught them.

“Ah.” The maid’s eyes flick over Jughead. “The caretaker. I see.”

Betty takes his arm. “Again, our apologies, and let us know if we can get you anything at all.”

As they leave, Jughead can feel the maid’s glare boring into his back.

#

“So that explains the noises that scared Chuck so much.” Betty strides into the kitchen, opens her purse, and pulls out a notebook. She flips past a few pages covered with writing and frowns. “But why didn’t Cheryl say anything before she left for Paris? Or let Chuck know there is no ghost?”

“From everything you’ve told me, the guy’s a prize douche. Maybe she didn’t want him here at all and it was a good excuse to get rid of him. Heck, he got rid of himself.” Jughead rummages in a kitchen drawer, finds a ballpoint, and puts in Betty’s hand before she asks.

“You wouldn’t mention the fact to anyone that your grandmother lived in the house and might need supplies? Or emergency medical care?” Betty props her notebook on one thigh and begins to write.

He deflates into one of the chairs. “That _is_ weird.”

“It’s more than weird. It’s psychotic.”

“Well, these people are rich, right?” Jughead waves at the window, indicating the pool house and formal gardens. “Probably they have a whole support network set up for the old lady.”

“Mrs. Rose.”

“Right, Mrs. Rose.” He extends his neck and tries to see what’s in her notebook. “Hey, I didn’t know you liked to write.”

“Oh.” Betty slaps the book shut and gives him one of her upside-down smiles. “It’s just notes. Non-fiction, not a novel.”

“Hey, non-fiction is really difficult,” Jughead protests. “Don’t sell yourself short. In fact, why didn’t you tell me you’re a writer as well? And don’t tell me you’re not. I can see it in the way you hit that page, as if you couldn’t wait to get the words down – like they were about to burst out otherwise.”

“Hm.” Betty absentmindedly taps her bottom lip with the pen. “Yes, that’s exactly how I feel. Usually I just write a diary, though.”

“You do?” Jughead is charmed. He’s tried to keep journals in the past, but the effort always fades away when he sees how dreary his life is on paper. “Madamoiselle Pepys, nice to meet you. I can just picture you lying on your bed, scribbling about dances and football games.”

Her smile fades and she stows the notebook away. “One day I’ll find something worthwhile to write about.”

“You definitely will. And one day maybe you’ll let me read it.”

“Okay, when I get to read your stuff. We’ll trade.”

Jughead grins and holds out his hand. “Deal.”

When Betty shakes it, he immediately stands and pulls her into his arms. “Dessert?”

“Oh!” Her face lights up. “I made a chocolate mousse pie. It’s my specialty.”

“Chocolate mousse pie!” Jughead groans. “The thought almost – almost – woos me away from making a pass at you right now.”

“It will only take a minute to… Jug! Put me down!”

He scoops her up into a bridal-carry and kicks the chair out of his way before striding to the bedroom. “You got me here at the outskirts of civilization, princess,” Jughead murmurs into her ear. “Now show me exactly why.”

#

Betty has brought several lengths of slender nylon rope, all in different colors. She tells Jughead to strip and lie on the bed before securing his wrists to the bedstead. “Simple half-hitches,” she explains, “for our first bondage session. We’ll keep it light.” As she talks she constantly stops, tests the ropes by running her fingers under the tension to make sure her knots aren’t too tight.

It’s incredibly liberating to be naked before her, tied to the bed. He’s at her mercy, a position that would drive him insane if it were anyone else. But Jughead has complete faith in Betty, the way she keeps a flow of soothing chatter as she double-checks her work. “I can undo these easily if you need me to..”

“Stop talking,” Jughead slurs. “Come here.”

Her green eyes widen. Before he knows what has happened, a tiny crop appears in her hand. Betty brings it down on the crest of his hip, its sting a reminder of who’s in charge. “Do not,” she says calmly, “ tell me what to do. Unless you want this again.”

“But I’ve wanted you since yesterday.” That isn’t quite true. He’s wanted her all week, all month, when he first saw her at the Jubilee, before both of them were born.

Her crop snicks his inner thigh, and Jughead realizes he’s impossibly erect, rearing and dripping over his belly. If he wants, he can protest and get another kiss from her little crop. She’s tied him down, but the real power is in his hands. It’s one hell of an addictive feeling.

“Baby Boy, look at you.” Betty leans over and blows into his ear, making him shudder with desire. “So hard already for me. Are you doing okay so far? Need to use your safe word?”

He shakes his head. There’s no way Jughead wants to stop now. They’ve entered an alternate timeline, one far away from the Serpents and his dad relying on him to run errands and service their marks. He doesn’t have to worry about anything.

“You got me,” he says, except it’s really a question, and she agrees. Betty promises she’ll take care of him, all he has to do is lie back and enjoy the ride.

Light filters in from the tiny kitchen so he can see her in pressed cotton and neat denim. Jughead feels open, vulnerable, so naked next to her. “I could be your slave,” he whispers. “A gift. You would bring me to your room and use me whenever you wanted.”

Betty stands and slowly unbuttons her blouse. “Not a slave. A consort. I’d find you in another country and pay for your freedom. You’d come to live with me, my favorite escort. You’d lie on my couch, and I’d feed you grapes. Everyone would watch us and know what we would be doing together later.”

“Jesus.” He surges up, but he can’t reach her because of the ropes. Betty stands out of reach, eases out of boots and jeans. Her shirt hangs unbuttoned to show upright breasts and flat belly, hints of elegance in the half-light.

She climbs on the mattress beside him and tests his bonds again, slight frown pleating her brow. “How do you feel? No numbness, pins and needles, pain of any kind?” When he shakes his head, beyond words, she licks deliberately into his mouth. “Mm. I’m researching more advanced knots. Shibari, a system of intricate ropework. It’s art, really – your skin would look really beautiful with a network of loops down here,” she traces his chest, “and here,” runs a fingernail down his arms. “Would you like that? If we got it right, I could try slight suspension, immobilization – nothing too extreme at first. It would be a journey we could take together.”

Jughead swears again as she dips into him, the soft cones of her breast, hipbones, one rounded knee. “You’re so wet,” he exclaims. He can feel the honey quivering behind the treasure of her sex, and the realization blinds him. “You like this too. Can I – please, can I taste you?”

They share a smile. A slight squeak of the bedsprings and her thighs bracket him. He’s faced with softest and pinkest part of Betty Cooper. Mouth watering, Jughead arches up into her and writes his secret message with his tongue. There's no indication if she understands. But after she collapses onto his chest, Betty kisses him thoroughly.

"Do you like it?" Jughead says right into her mouth. Personally, he's already addicted to her flavor.

"Very interesting," she replies, and bites his lip.

After that, things get fuzzy and slip in and out as though he’s watching a film on an old-fashioned projector, flickering into warm dark and bright reality. He hears his own voice, pleading for her. Please, he says. Please. 

She rolls on a condom onto him. After that it's all warm and shivery. Betty teases him by taking only the tip, making him throb as though he’s already in the midst of ecstasy, undulating out of his way before she lets him slip inside with aching slowness. When she's fully seated, Betty bends down and bites his earlobe, so Jughead's pain and pleasure mix in stripes, bright and dark.

He feels his self-control slip, inexorably, although he'd like the act to go all night. Several times she withdraws, shuddering, from the brink. But each attempt brings them closer to the edge, and when at last he feels the heat in his belly coil and shot forth in toe-curling waves, Jughead nearly whites out from the overwhelming pleasure.

 

#

And later, he’s woken from a deep sleep by a nightmare. Jughead can’t remember the dream, only that it was hideous and sudden. He remembers an unknown figure with a static television screen where its head should have been bending over Betty's sleeping body.

Lost in the confusion of recent slumber, horror pours over him when he realizes he can still hear the static feedback. Jughead pushes out of the circle of Betty’s arms and sits up, heart in his throat.

He jumps out of bed and heads into the room beside the kitchen where the cameras display various rooms of Thornhill: hallway, grand staircase, the huge fireplace. One screen shivers, its image lost, the source of the static that has woken him.

On an impulse, Jughead punches a button on the mainframe. The static disappears, and for one split-second the screen is filled with a white face looking straight ahead. Its eyes are black holes, holes burned into a skull.

Jerking back, Jughead nearly falls on the uneven wooden slats of the old floor. He reaches blindly for his new phone to record the image, but his fingers encounter nothing.

When at last he finds the stupid thing (under the kitchen table, dropped when he dragged Betty to bed,) the image is gone. It is replaced by a room Jughead recognizes, since he just saw it a few hours earlier. The camera displays the attic where the old lady lives with her faithful companion, the snooty maid.

Jughead means to wake Betty and tell her what has happened. However, when he returns to the bedside, silver moonlight curls over her cheekbone. She looks so peaceful that he can’t bring himself to wake her up, and at last he climbs under the blankets next to her, his own princess.


	10. Windows

Betty dreams about a dark figure chasing her through a maze of passageways. She flirts with sleep, sliding through shades of gray as the night dies. Her nightmare pushes her off a cliff, and she thinks she’s falling until strong arms wind around her waist. With a cry, Betty jolts into wakefulness.

“S’okay, princess,” Jughead slurs into her ear. “Y’r safe with me.”

She rocks back against him for safety, which becomes a search for something else as she encounters Juggie's hardness. Betty feels him roll her against his chest, bury his head into her neck. His hair is ridiculous, standing straight up and soft as down on her shoulders. Little sleepy kisses become biting, hungry demands for more.

It's still so early that their lovemaking feels like a dream. Betty covers his hands with hers so they can stroke his shaft together, throbbing under her fingers. In unison they slide between her legs, dip together into the little warm pool they find there.

She shudders as his thumb brushes the electric bundle of nerves, and he hums thoughtfully against her cheek. “Slippery,” Jughead whispers. “I could fit inside so easily.”

It's the loveliest of dreams when he does. They arch and cry out against each other, riding a wave of pleasure into the blue-green sunrise at Thornhill.

#

Betty gets the call just as her waffles are ready. She plops a large plate of food onto the tiny table, feels in her back pocket, and pulls out her phone. The screen shows several unanswered texts of rising urgency, all from Veronica.

_Swipe right, answer the phone._ When Veronica screams into Betty’s ear that somehow Alice has found out about the fake meeting, that Mrs. Cooper knows Betty has spent the night not with Veronica and the other Vixens but at an ‘undisclosed location’ (Veronica’s phrase) Betty gabbles a quick Thanks and shoves the phone into her pocket.

“What’s up?” Jughead emerges from the bedroom, towel around his waist, and is nearly bowled over as Betty rushes to pick up her bag. “Whacha doin, Betts? Thought we were going to sit and have a leisurely breakfast…”

“Mom found out I wasn’t with Veronica.” Betty has no time to explain. She bundles her clothes into a ball, stashes it in her bag, and grabs one waffle. “Enjoy the food, soup’s on the stove ready to go, I’ll call the second I can, sorry I have to run.”

She gives him a quick kiss on the cheek and dashes to the truck. Of all mornings! Betty wanted to watch Jughead eat waffles in the sunlight struggling through lace curtains. She meant to give him the contents of a neat little package still wrapped up at the bottom of her bag. Certainly she meant to go for round three (or was it four?) after breakfast and a nap in his arms.

And she wanted to walk through Thornhill again. She's positive there’s a mystery there, and it bugs her not to figure it out. Why is Mrs. Rose living in the attic? Who would leave their family upstairs and not inform the caretakers – or anyone for that matter?

But instead, Betty has to put on her apology face and talk to her mother.

#

Grounded for two weeks. No friends. No phone. No truck. Betty’s only allowed to go to school, Vixens practice, and right back home where she’ll be doing homework all night. “And if you think you’ll be able to take right back up with the loser you spent the night with,” Alice declares, “you can forget it.”

Betty tilts up her chin and glares back. “I accept the punishment, but let’s get one thing clear right now. I wasn’t with a loser. His name is Jughead, and neither you nor anyone else is coming between us.” Before her mother can launch into another rant, Betty swirls. goes upstairs, and slams her bedroom door.

It was stupid to think Alice wouldn’t go into full investigative reporter mode. Now Betty is farther away from Jug than ever, and she can’t see a way to getting back to him unless she defies her mom and runs away again.

She could do just that – sneak out again at midnight, hotwire a car, drive to Thornhill and…

No. She’s thinking wildly, making ridiculous plans that would get her into even more trouble. Betty sits up, pulls her hair over one shoulder, and reaches for her diary. Using her self-devised code, she jots down the facts and what she’s got left to help her move forward.

At this moment it’s nothing but a room. Betty glances around at the pictures, the mirror, the stacks of books and pastel furniture. In her closet, there are sweaters on hangers and in neatly-folded piles, flats lined up by season, purses and scarves on hooks.

The usual furniture: bureau, bed, bedside table with a lamp. All useless. She stands and prowls around the room, brushing her fingertips over snowglobes, the matching silver-backed brush set from her grandmother, her copy of Venus in Furs. Betty touches the flowers on her walls, thinks of The Yellow Wallpaper and suppresses a shudder.

And what is Jughead doing right now? Wondering where she is, eating the soup she left, doing his caretaker job? When will he start to worry? Because she’s essentially left him stranded, now that he’s sold his motorcycle. She can’t get into Thornhill, and he can’t get away.

Betty grits her teeth and flops onto her window seat. If she doesn’t figure something out by the morning, she’ll punch her way through the window and make her mother see…

_The window._

With a sharp intake of breath, Betty gets onto her knees. She scrabbles at the clasps on her window, yanks up the pane, and sticks her head out.

The air is cold, but Betty ignores the winter weather. Her eyes narrow as she leans out and tries to see if Archie is in his room. There’s a dark shape moving around behind his curtains, but is it him or Mr. Andrews?

Betty decides she has to take that chance. She runs back to her dresser, yanks open a drawer, and rifles through it for a variety of missiles.

One mascara, two lipsticks, and her old compass hit the glass of Arche’s window before he finally opens the window. Betty sees his familiar red head and breathes out a long sigh of relief.

“Betty,” he yells. “What the hell are you doing? Target practice?”

“Shh!” Betty makes frantic motions for him to keep quiet. “Arch, I need to talk to you, but I’m grounded for life and don’t have a phone. Can you sneak over here? But no one – and I mean no one – can see you.”

#

With a classic ding-and-ditch, Archie distracts Betty’s parents long enough for him to climb the old ladder and make it into her room. She pulls him inside, closes the window, and turns to explain her predicament.

“I’ve missed you,” Archie says, stepping dangerously close. Betty is about to protest, but he’s already on the move.

“Blurgh,” Betty protests. He’s sighing into her mouth, one arm around her waist, the other pulling at her ponytail. “Archie, cut it out – Archie!”

“What?” His eyes, almost as familiar as her own, are tender. “Did I get something wrong? Because I apologize, but I’ve been thinking a lot about us, and …”

“Yes, you got it wrong,” Betty interrupts. “I’m still with Jughead, asshole. But you know what really pisses me off? You had an amazing girlfriend and just let her go because you remembered there was a dish on the dessert buffet you hadn’t tried yet, and that sucks. For both Veronica and me. Yes, I did like you at one time, but that ship has well and truly sailed.”

He frowns, his handsome face uncharacteristically solemn in the watery light filtering into Betty’s bedroom. “It’s not like that. Ronnie is amazing, you’re right, but you're incredible too, and I really think we could have something if you forget about this Southside dude …”

Betty crosses her arms. She doesn’t have time for this. Jughead is stranded at Thornhill, and she needs to at least check in with him. “Veronica’s dating already. She’s had offers from a few guys. And don’t look shocked, Arch. She’s beautiful, smart, courageous, the best friend I have after you, although you’ve been a total douche lately.”

He’s almost too predictable, with his frown and a glance at the ladder as if he’s about to go and chase down V now that Betty’s provided another challenge. “Maybe I should talk to her.” 

“Oh no.” Betty hooks one arm through his elbow. “I mean, absolutely you should, but first you have to drive to Thornhill and check in on Jughead since I’m grounded right now.”

“That tool?” Archie looks appalled. “I’ll do anything for you, but don’t make me go and interact with that burger-eating, trouble-making, beanie-wearing idiot.”

“He isn’t…” Betty sighs. “Yeah, maybe he is, but he is my, um.”

“Your what? He's your what, Betty?”

“I don’t know.” It’s a fact that she and Jughead haven’t put any parameters around their fragile and exciting relationship. “But he’s important to me, and I want to make sure he stays safe. Now you're going to check in with him and see if he needs anything at all. If you do, I’ll put in a good word with V for you.”

#

As the sun slips over the horizon, Betty goes out to the old treehouse and looks inside. She does a few celebratory dabs when she sees Archie has come through for her. A burner phone sits in the middle of the floor next to a note covered with his scrawl: _Here’s the number to your new phone_. _Going to head over to Thornhill soon and let your boy know you’ll call him from an unknown contact. Bringing more groceries, and I can give him rides this week._

There’s one querulous postscript: _I wish you’d forget him, Betty._

Betty flips open the clunky phone and punches in Jughead’s number, keeping an eye on her backyard. Through the kitchen window she can see Alice flicker in and out like a damaged old movie, making her famous Cooper pot roast. If all goes well, Betty can send some to Jughead later.

“Betts?” Jughead's voice is husky over the cheap speaker of the crappy phone when he picks up. “Is that you?”

“Hey.” She can’t help sighing with relief. Breath whooshes out of her lungs as she sags against the flimsy wood side of her tiny house. “I wish I could be there with you. How’s it going at the main house?”

He fills her in on his day, says he’s been working on school stuff and a new chapter. “But,” Jughead adds, “Thornhill is weird. Last night while you were asleep, I thought I saw a face on one of the monitors in the cottage.”

“What?” Betty sits up. “A face? Was it Mrs. Rose? You should have woken me up.”

“You looked so peaceful, though.” He laughs again, a sound of self-admission. “And beautiful, with your hair spread out all over the pillow. The neck of your pajamas slipped to one side, and I could see your skin like silver in the moonlight.”

Betty closes her eyes and feels her heart racing. Something’s happening to her, a foreign emotion she’s fought off ever since Archie turned her down at that stupid dance, and she forces her thoughts back to Thornhill. “ _Was_ it Mrs. Rose, though, that you saw?”

Jughead sounds doubtful. “I don’t think so, although it was late and I had just woken up from a nightmare, to be honest. About you, but that’s not the point. So maybe my imagination was working overtime?”

“Hm. Maybe. I wish I’d never gotten you into Thornhill, now.”

“Worried? I thought you liked it when I’m reckless.”

“But I was the reckless one this time.”

“Betts,” Jughead purrs, “I like that as much as you do.”

The anger she’s been carrying all day melts in Betty's chest. “Well, I do want to make sure you’re not cut off from the entire world since I kind of like having you around. So I talked to Archie today – hold on, let me finish – and told him to stop by and check in on you.”

“That douche?” Jughead emits a disgusted groan. “Why him, of all people? Jeffrey Dahmer was unavailable?”

“If you’ve taken notes on our conversation, I am grounded without a phone or my truck so Arch was my only option. And if you keep groaning like that, I’m going to assume you either need an appendectomy or turned into a water buffalo. Look, Juggie – I refuse to strand you at the back of beyond just because I got punished.”

There’s a long silence. “He didn’t kiss you again, did he?” Jughead finally asks.

Betty winces and wraps an arm around her knees. “Yeah. He kind of did. But before you go nuclear, I informed him he could fuck off. Also, he needs to get back with Veronica because she’s pretty fabulous, but that’s another story.”

“I’m going to kill him!” Jughead shouts. “I am literally going to pull off his head, spit down his neck, kick his butt so bad he begs me to put him out of his misery, hoist him on his own petard.”

Betty can’t help giggling. “Oh, well, if you’re getting Shakespearian revenge, then okay. Seriously, though. Just try and be civil long enough to get rides or supplies or whatever you need.”

“Why him of all people?”

“I was kind of desperate, Juggie.” Betty closes her eyes and tries to will him to understand. “I'm sorry, but you and Archie are just going to have to get past this nonsense for the next two weeks. I explained to him we’re together.”

“You told him we’re together?”

Betty can hear the smile in Jughead’s words, can picture his smile when he allows himself to be happy. “I did.” The hell with it, she’s grinning as well. “What do you think about that?”

“Princess, I think that’s a wonderful and marvelous idea.”

"Yeah. I think it's pretty swell, too. Maybe later we can..."

She’s cut off by a loud gasp. “Holy shit,” Jughead curses. “What the fuck is that?”

Sitting bolt upright, Betty clasps the cheap burner phone in both hands as if she could reach her lover through the airwaves. “What’s what?” she demands. “What?”

“I gotta check this out,” he says. “Call you back soon.”

The line goes dead.


	11. Ghosts

The caretaker’s cottage sits up on a sharp rise, perhaps to make it easier to keep watch over the estate before the age of security cameras. Jughead has spent the day watching the windows for a certain classic truck to reappear up the winding drives of Thornhill, but after several hours of waiting he has to admit that Betty won't be returning any time soon.

He bargains with himself like his ten-year-old self: _If I don’t check my phone for the next fifteen minutes, if I complete a walkthrough of the main house first, if I send another text that’s friendly, not creepy, she'll show up._

Nothing works. His calls go straight through to message, his texts aren’t returned, and the driveway stays empty of a certain neurotic blond who sports a thorough knowledge of Wankel rotary engines.

Jughead spends the first few hours of what should have been their lazy Sunday working on his next chapter. The words come easily until he takes a break to eat the soup Betty’s left on the stove, simmering in a blue and white speckled pot. Certainly chicken noodle soup has never been his fantasy food, but her version is amazing: warm, filled with carrots that melt like butter, fragrant onions and real parsley. Coins of celery, perfectly cooked chicken, and just the right hint of cracked pepper. And are those home-made noodles?

As he helps himself to another bowl, Jughead realizes there’s a gaping plothole in his characterization of the main character. He’ll need to go back rewrite the last two, maybe three chapters before he continues the manuscript – either that or enter Rewrite Hell later. After he turns off the burner under the soup, Jughead stares at his laptop before clapping it shut. The best thing to do is get out of his own head, let his thoughts marinate before getting back to the grind.

One last text message to Betty ( _Gosh, Lambchop,_ _just let me know you’re okay_ ) and he heads up to the main house. Might as well do his job while he ponders plot arcs and his antagonist's motivation.

The gloom inside Thornhill hasn’t lifted, even with bright winter sunshine outside. Jughead checks the security feeds inside, notes that nothing has happened all night – no intruders, not even from the attics. Apparently Mrs. Rose and her dragon-like maid have been upstairs all night.

So why was there a face on the monitors in the middle of the night? Jughead still remembers the white features and blacked-out eyes. Of course it could have been leftover from his dreams, crumbs of a nightmare, since he _had_ been dreaming of something so horrifying his mind smothered the memory.

Another reflexive look at the phone screen to see Betty still hasn’t answered his texts. Jughead’s not a complete idiot – if she ran out in such a panic, there have been what Gladys used to call Very Serious Consequences. Plus, Alice Cooper does have a certain reputation for being a total hardo. His girl probably lost her phone and freedom, which sucks. Jughead bunches one cheek when he thinks of how hopeful Betty had been about the cottage, all the time they could spend there getting lost in each other. And look at that – they didn’t even make it a full 24 hours.

He’ll get too frustrated and blow up in a tantrum if he keeps thinking about it. To distract himself, Jughead climbs to the attic and knocks on the hidden door. “Hello?” he calls. “It’s me, the guy who visited last night?”

The room opens, just a slit to reveal the fire within before the maid materializes in front of the door and blocks out the orange and blue flames. “We’re not at home,” she snips.

About to argue that’s nothing new and he’s used to being an intruder, Jughead is interrupted by a querulous voice from inside. “Let them in, Sephronia, for heaven’s sake. Don’t keep my guests waiting.”

“Oh, look at that.” Jughead grins and winks at the maid, who ruffles like an irritated hen. “Seems you’re home after all.”

He barrels past Sephronia – is that really her name? Jughead’s going to file it away for a future character – and strides to Mrs. Rose. The maid follows as closely as possible, breathing down his neck. “You’ve got quite the guard,” he says to the old lady, who leans back in her chair and steeples her fingers.”

“Hm. I suppose I do. Sephronia!” she barks. “Bring us tea.”

As soon as the maid leaves, Jughead kneels beside the old lady. “Don’t have much time, so I have to get right to it,” he murmurs. “This house isn’t haunted, right? You haven’t seen any ghosts – or have you?”

She lifts one hand with a showy, theatrical gesture and palms his chin. “Ghosts? No. But there’s something else here, although you couldn’t really call them ghosts… they have another name… almost ghosts, but different.”

“Intruders?” Jughead feels desperate, depending on an old lady who seems to be living in an alternate reality for information. “People somehow get past security and get into Thornhill?”

“Not ghosts,” she repeats. “But not people either.”

The clink of china announces Sephronia’s return. Jughead stands and dusts off his pants as the maid comes in with tea. “I don’t see why we have to entertain guttersnipes with our finest china,” she gripes, setting the tray down in the mathematical center of the small table in front of Mrs. Rose.

“Why, Sephronia!” Mrs. Rose takes Jughead’s hand in both of hers and rubs his wrist with one knuckled, diamond-spattered finger. “This young man is one of my oldest friends, and of course he’s engaged to such a lovely young lady.” She peeks up at him through her lashes. “I do so look forward to your wedding. If I get an invitation of course, ha ha.”

_This whole thing has been a waste,_  Jughead thinks. _She’s out of her mind, poor thing._ At least he can set one thing straight, though. “Sorry. I’m actually not engaged, though. In fact, Betty and I aren’t even an official couple.” He pats her hand as he frees himself, hoping the tiny gesture might remove the sting from his words.

“But you _will_ be.” Mrs. Rose holds a ring dangling from a long golden chain around her age-ravaged neck and waves it at him. “My pendulum is quite clear on that point.”

#

The house inspection is finished when Jughead’s phone finally rings with an unknown number, which means Betts has found a new way to contact him.

_That’s my girl._

He answers, heart lifting at the relief and plain happiness in her voice. She's being punished, just as he suspected, and he wants to say how sorry he is for dragging her into his messy life.

But she asks about Thornhill, and his thoughts get derailed into nightmares, security camera images, Betty’s declaraction that they’re together.

To Archie.

The redhead is the one who's given Betty a replacement phone.

The idea of that flame-haired prick getting close to her makes Jughead’s temper spike. He leaves the house and paces towards the driveway where it loops around the barn, ready to kill the Andrews kid. Jughead says as much to Betty, adds a few invectives he’ll probably regret later, but she just giggles and says something about Shakespeare.

As she tells him he needs to be civil, Jughead enters the barn. There’s a dark figure beside a tall array of barrels, backlit by a late ray of sunshine.

It turns, revealing a white face with two black holes for eyes.

Jughead gasps into the phone and says he’ll call back. As he clicks off, the – person? Man? Ghost? – runs into a far corner of the barn.

_Goddamnit,_ Jughead curses as he chases after the thing. _Why the hell am I so curious and brave? Can’t I just be that guy who escapes from the stupid haunted mansion, hitchhikes to a safe couch, and turns on a football game?_

It would never work. He doesn’t even enjoy football.

Jughead rounds the corner and skitters to a stop. The dark figure has its back to him, seemingly inspecting one of the barrels. As Jughead watches, it bends closer and tries the spigot.

In desperation, Jughead looks around the barn. There’s nothing he can use as a weapon except an old wagon wheel, piles of kindling, and a broken bucket. He tests a piece of wood in one hand, discards it, and picks up the bucket before edging closer to the shadowy figure. Slowly he raises both arms…

Just as the figure turns.

“Hey,” it says in a very human and annoyed tone. “What the hell, man? Were you just about to clock me with a bucket?”

It’s Archie Andrews himself, not an inhabitant of a nightmare.

Rather sheepishly, Jughead lowers his weapon and tries to recover some dignity. “I thought you were an intruder,” he huffs. “What are you doing in the barn, anyway?”

Archie turns, crosses his arms, and has the gall to look heroic in the fading light. “Betty sent me over, so I went to the cottage but you weren’t there. You want to explain this?” He pulls at the barrel, and its cover slides open under his touch. Instantly a stream of packets slide out, silver and slippery as fish.

“Ho Lee Shit.” Jughead turns on his flashlight app and crouches to look at one of the parcels. “This looks like drugs. What the hell are the Blossoms up to?”

“Wait.” Archie kneels next to Jughead and taps the duct tape covering one package. “You didn’t do this?”

Like a bolt of lightning, Jughead recalls how much he hates Big Boy Bozo and his Northsider prejudices. He stands up and throws the bucket, which lands with a decisive clang on the barn floor. “Why, because I live in a trailer? Because I’m with Betty now and you don’t like it? I just _have_ to be a dealer, right?”

“Listen.” Archie raises both hands. “If I got it wrong, I apologize. Maybe I leapt to conclusions. I’m just trying to protect, Betty, right? She’d be the one to take Blossom heat if criminal activity’s going on in their home while they’re away. And, believe me, the Blossoms are not people you want on your bad side.”

Jughead curses again and contemplates the drugs. “In that case, calling the cops seems to be a non-option.”

“What do you think we should do?”

“We have to tell her. I’m not lying to Betty.”

“Huh.” Archie frowns and seems to consider. “I don’t know if that’s such a great idea. She’ll want to sneak out right away and head over here, start an investigation in the name of truth and justice.”

“Yeah.” Jughead realizes his smile has become intensely soppy and grimaces. “You know what, you’re actually right. So what’s left?”

“Well, you’re the caretaker here, right? So we take care of it. Pull watches on the barn, make sure no one can get in or out until we can tell Sheriff Keller.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

With that uneasy truce in place, Jughead fetches the bucket. He and Archie pile packets of drugs inside, pour them into the barrel, and slam it shut – just as his phone rings.

Jughead and Archie look at each other and nod. “Betty,” they say in the same breath.


	12. Ditch

Betty jitters her way through Monday morning classes and resists the urge to check her crappy burner phone every five seconds. Jughead hasn’t answered her frequent calls beyond a quick text to tell her goodnight, he wishes she could be there, he misses everything about her from way she makes soup to the arch of her eyebrows.

The phone stays stubbornly silent as Betty stows her books, grabs a sack lunch, and heads to the cafeteria. There’s a neat A+ on her French test, a long and glowing paragraph written in red pencil on the bottom of the Jane Eyre essay, and Principal Weatherbee has hinted at a summer internship. Ridiculous, really, that she should feel sad.

“B.” Veronica puts a hand on Betty’s elbow just as she’s about to sit at an empty table. “Does our own Riverdale High seem even drearier than usual today?”

Betty looks around the cafeteria. Reggie stands turtle-shelled over Midge, Moose is oblivious beside the condiment display, while Kevin looks at him and shakes his head. Melody taps out an inner tune with two straws. Miss Grundy is on lunch duty in her usual corner. Ethel writes, engrossed in her moleskine notebook. There are hidden layers under all the usual pep: Betty knows Midge hides a methodical series of scars under her long sleeves, and Miss Grundy is covertly checking out Chuck Clayton’s muscled back.

“It all looks normal to me.” Betty offers Veronica a Red Vine.

“Do you notice a lack of a red-headed and wide-eyed lothario?”

Betty searches, but Veronica is right. “Maybe Archie’s sick or has lunch detention.”

“But that’s where you’re wrong.” V waves her phone under Betty’s nose. “He butt-dialed me a few minutes ago. Listen to this, and try not to implode from his complete douche-baggery.”

Betty holds the phone and presses play. “…We still can’t tell anyone,” Archie is saying. “The trouble you’ll get into is just a start. Thought we already agreed on this? Ronnie might try to…”

The transmission clicks off.

“Might try to what?” V shouts at the blank screen. “What does that even mean?” Betty tries to speak, but Veronica continues to go off on absent Archie. She lists several things she wants to do to him, ticking them off on her fingers one by one. “And you know my new eyebrow scissors?” she finishes. “I’m using them to clip the B string on his favorite guitar.”

“Hang on.” Betty frowns and listens to the voicemail again. “There’s a voice in the background. Think we can amplify this?”

“That would require state-of-the art speakers with Bluetooth capability.” Veronica’s voice lowers. “Of course we’d never be able to find a pair of those in a million years – kidding! Of course my Tesla comes equipped with every possible upgrade. Shall we adjourn?”

#

Betty leans forward, sandwich forgotten on her knee as she listens to the message again. “There,” she says. “When Archie says he thought they agreed on something. Do you hear that other voice in the background?”

“I think I see where you’re going with this.” Veronica brings up a hideously complicated sound menu on the Tesla’s digital display board and fiddles with the sliders before replaying the message. “Let’s see if this is better.”

Archie’s voice is muted, and Betty can just make out the words. “One more time,” she says.

“On it.” Veronica pokes her phone, and it emits Archie’s voice with a few words in the background.

Betty repeats them on the fifth repetition. “Let’s keep in mind…” and Veronica chimes in: “I’m not a Northside Highland prince.”

V assumes her usual smug, cat-like smile. “Nice detective work,” she says, patting her own shoulder.

“And guess what? There’s only one person I know who’s that sarcastic,” Betty adds. “Which means I know exactly where Archie is, and who he’s with.”

“That Serpent fellow you brought to Pops?”

“Yes,” Betty says. “Jughead. And my guess is he and Arch are at Thornhill, and I’d further guess they’ve stumbled onto some kind of secret or mystery.”

“Jughead, right. I’m just dying to learn the etymology behind that name. Did his face get stuck in a milk pitcher? Did someone break a vase over his skull? So many questions.” Veronica puts down her croissant and turns to Betty. “You know, I’ve recently been through a bad break-up, you’re grounded, and school sucks. Want to ditch?”

#

Sulky sunlight straggles through the ivy and old oak around Thornhill’s gates. Veronica sails past the house and shifts into Park. “Think they’ll see us?”

Betty rolls down the window and looks at the huge house, forbidding in its setting of thorn trees for which it was named. The place glowers at them, a dark jewel in decaying splendor. She’s been there at night and in the morning, and it still makes her shiver.

“We should be fine. The grounds are huge, so we can easily sneak in a side entrance and avoid those two.

“Wait.” Veronica’s gloved hand, ringed with fur at the wrist, shoots out and grabs Betty’s elbow. “Avoid or confront?”

“Avoid at the start until we figure out what they’re doing, then confront them.”

Veronica surprises her with a fierce and sudden hug. “You’re right. Okay, girl, let’s do this. Side entrance, huh?”

“Yeah.” Betty slams the car door and heads to where the Thornhill gate walls round the corner. There’s a strip of land between Cheryl’s mansion and the fields nearby, a capillary of scrub bordered by elders on one side and ivy-covered walls on the other. This path is striped from recent tire-tracks, perhaps the marks of caterers or housecleaners before a Blossom event.

She beckons to V. Together the girls tiptoe down the makeshift road to a place where the ivy stops. An old wooden door is set into the wall there, covered with peeling green paint. Someone has scratched a few strange marks into it: five circles in the shape of a W, a dotted circle and square, two misshapen crosses.

“Hobo marks.” Betty points to the circles. “Money can be made here, bad-tempered man, and, well. The crosses mean Danger.”

“Of course they do.” Veronica collapses against the door. “You know, B, one day we’re going to go to the mall together. We’ll buy frilly things like feathered mules and powder-puffs. That’s going to be a good, good day. Uh, I don’t suppose this gate is locked and we have no way in?”

“Sure, but…” Betty reaches back to her ponytail and produces a hairpin.

“Shit.” V gestures to the door. “Fine – go on.”

Humming, Betty sticks the pin into the lock and twiddles it, feeling the tumblers click into place. One final twist, and the scarred door opens.

Inside, two figures stand like portraits in the frame of the door, their heads together as they consider something on the ground. Betty raises one finger to warn her friend, but Veronica ignores her and bursts into the grounds.

Archie turns and jumps nearly six inches as his ex-girlfriend barrels forward like a determined and highly decorative steam-engine. “Hey, asshat!” Veronica yells. “’Ronnie might try to –‘ what, exactly? I might do what, you flame-haired Zippo?”

“Avoid and _then_ confront,” Betty reminds her friend helplessly.

Veronica’s hand curls in Archie’s collar, cutting off his protestations. Like a competent dog trainer leading a Newfoundland hound, Veronica him to one side and launches into a long tirade, one finger under his nose. His confused brown eyes and hangdog expression only add to the general impression of a wayward puppy who knows he’s done a bad thing.

Slowly, Betty meets Jughead’s eyes. “Zippo,” she mouths.

His eyes narrow in laughter, and she raises one eyebrow. _Well?_ It seems to be all he needs. With a moan, Jughead springs forward, frames her faces in his hands, and kisses Betty. His mouth is soft, almost tentative, and at the end she tastes just a hint of his tongue.

They stand, his arm around her waist, her hands slack on his shoulders. “I missed the hell out of you,” Jughead says.

“Mm,” she says. “Me too.”

“But what are you doing? Sneaking in the side door, you’re grounded already, _and_ it’s a school day.”

She’s winded with the injustice of it. “Wait, what?”

“You heard me,” Jughead says. “You could get in trouble. Actually, you’re already in trouble.”

“First,” Betty says, “you’re also here on a school day, so let’s shut that down right now. And why didn’t you call me if there’s a mystery here?”

The quick flash of his eyes towards the barn gives him away – there _are_ secrets at Thornhill, and he’s has chosen to confide in Archie, of all people.

“What is it, Jug?”

Jughead’s eyes crackle with danger, the shocking blue of cracked glaciers under Arctic storms. “Was keeping you up-to-date part of my job description, since you provided this employment opportunity?”

Betty flinches. His hands slide off her hips, and she steps out of his embrace. “I would never have suggested you for the job if I didn’t trust you, Jug. But something's happening here, according to the message Archie left Veronica by mistake. I want to help – and we should let The Blossoms know, probably Sheriff Keller as well.”

“And have him question me, the gang member the Blossoms hired to take care of the place they’re away?”

“Oh.” Betty scratches her nose thoughtfully. “Yeah. You’re right. So what _is_ going at Thornhill?”

“No,” Jughead states flatly. “You’re not getting involved in this. There’s no way I’m letting you step in. There are some really bad people, in fact I think the ghosts are…”

“Are what?” she cries. “What are they?” But she can see it’s hopeless. He’s made up his mind, mouth firm with purpose. Betty _could_ use the domme voice that brings him to heel, but she wants to reserve that for when they’re vulnerable and naked together.

Jughead has never looked so young and determined, nor so dear. In that instance, Betty realizes exactly what she wants to say to him, although it’s also the wrong time for that on so many levels.

“Betts…” He shoves both fists into the pocket of his leather jacket. “I’m going to keep your friend’s house safe. But you have to get out of here.”

“I need a minute. Can you just give me a little time?” Betty cranes her neck to peer at V, see how she’s making out with her pain in the ass swain, but all she can see is Archie’s shoulders, knotted with concern as he listens to Veronica’s lecture. “I have to – I have to breathe for a second.” A thought occurs to her, and she adds, “And since Archie is your detective partner, you both should check the outside of this doorway. There are a few interesting hobo signs scratched into the paint.”

Before Jug can reply, she heads back through the secret little gate. The green lane trembles with silence, and Betty leans against the ivy-covered wall cursing her own curiosity. She can handle the punishments teachers and parents hand out, but the puzzled hurt on Jughead’s face isn’t so easily erased.

She pushes away from the stones and paces towards Veronica’s car. Betty figures she can wait there until V stops berating Archie and they can drive back to Riverdale High together.

As she emerges from the tiny back-alley, Betty bends over the ridiculous burner phone to send a text to Jughead, letting him know she’s leaving. She has to cycle through the letters, a long process that involves some curses and lots of deletions.

When she runs into a warm body, Betty gasps and nearly drops the phone. A woman with messy blond waves stands behind V’s Tesla, snapping a picture of the tags.

“Wha –“ Betty begins, but the woman moves too quickly.

“Malachai,” she directs in voice furred with whiskey and cigarettes.

Before Betty can move, a plastic cup lined with damp flannel covers her face. She struggles, tries to knock it away, but it’s followed by a pinprick in her arm.

Thornhill, green alley, and the blonde woman all slide sideways, replaced by black and velvet darkness.

#

Betty wakes to more darkness. Her wrists are bound behind her. When she tries to sit, she bangs her head against metal.

“Ow.” She falls back against harsh industrial carpet, a humped ridge digging into her back.

It’s easy enough to figure out what has happened, once her brain stops whirling. The vibrations, noise, and smell of gasoline tell her exactly where she is: tied up inside the locked trunk of a car.

Betty breathes out, in, and out. She forces back panic and vomit, figuring she has no time to deal with either. Screaming will get her nowhere, struggling will tighten the bonds already cutting into her arms, being afraid will make it far more difficult to figure a way out of this mess.

Like a reluctant runner, her heartbeat slows. She inhales, closes her eyes, exhales. Inside this new private nightmare, she waits for her moment.

She is Betty Cooper. Her dad has taught her to handle cars inside and out, and she's _really_ good with ropes and knots.


	13. Hobo Marks

Jughead waits for a few minutes, but Betty doesn’t return. Probably she’s trying to figure out a way to finagle a way help him and Archie with the Thornhill Affair.

The investigation is going pretty well, and for once Jughead is actually proud of something he's done. For one thing, he's figured out what Nana Rose has seen. _Not quite ghosts,_ the old lady said to him over tea.

_Not quite. Ghosts._

Chewing his lower lip, Jughead feels the clues slot into place. Those silver packets of drugs in the barn, the open gate that Betty found to sneak into Thornhill – of course she did! – and mysterious entities that aren't ghosts.

Check the other side of the door, Betty told him before she marched off to ‘think’. Jughead figures he'll do just that, since his girl is smart as hell. Maybe it’s another piece of the puzzle.

About to go and see what she meant, he’s distracted by Hurricane Veronica: five feet of fury as she wields a finger under Archie’s nose. “I get that you’re a player,” she’s saying, “but trying to hook up with my best friend? That’s a new low even for you, and you’ve compounded this race to the bottom by ditching school to become some kind of Magnum P.I., and then you won’t even let me and Betty in on your little investigation?? What, because we’re weak females who must be protected at all times? Allow me to disabuse you of that notion right now, Mr. Participation Trophy. Truly, you are impossible to underestimate.”

Jughead simply can’t help breaking into applause. “That was a magnificent take-down,” he says, “and I’ve seen entire motorcycle gangs in action.”

Archie gives him a hunted look as if he can’t believe Jughead’s betrayal to the bro-code, and Ronnie raises one straight-razor eyebrow. “Those must have been quite the bitch-fights.” She pats Archie’s cheek, a gesture all the more deadly for its gentleness. “I’d stay longer, but Reggie’s taking me to the new Belgian restaurant in Greendale tonight. Might have to wear my new red satin dress – after all, Le Grenouille is famous for their choucroute.”

“Aw, Ronnie, just let me explain.” Archie points in the direction of the barn. “Jughead and I found some really dangerous items when we were looking around here…”

“Archie,” Jughead cautions. “We don’t want word to get out.”

He regrets those words an instant later, since the laser of Ronnie’s attention focuses on him. “Word of what?” she demands. “And who is ‘We’ exactly – you and Archie? The patriarchy, in other words?”

“I’m a fucking gang member who got this job thanks to the efforts of a really nice girl,” Jughead snaps. “You do the math. If Sherriff Keller and the Blossoms find out possible crimes have happened here under my watch, do you think I have a chance in hell of not going to juvey? Jesus, you seem like a smart person – just think first before spouting off for once in your life.”

“’A really nice girl’,” Veronica repeats. “You mean Betty? That’s sweet, but I doubt she’d appreciate getting shouldered out of an investigation…”

“She’d get in trouble too if shit went down!” Jughead drags both hands over his face and groans.

“Okay, you can stop yelling at Veronica now.” Archie wedges his body between them. “It’s not going to help. Maybe we can work together, all four of us, and figure out a way to get Jug out of here, tell the cops, and arrest the bad guys.”

“And who are these bad guys exactly?” Her eyes narrow into dark triangles.

“Why should I work with you?” Jughead protests at the same moment. “I don’t know you, and I _barely_ know you.” He stabs one finger at Veronica and Archie in turn. “No offense, but at the moment I wouldn’t go to the corner store with either of you.”

“Shh.” Archie stops him with the flat of one hand on Jughead’s chest. “What’s that noise?”

Miraculously, Veronica stops her protest. The three of them stand in the hushed garden beside the gray wall with its little door, listening to the garden’s hushed silence. A shrill sound interrupts: the first bar of an old song: “Lollipop, lollipop, oh lolly lolly lolly…”

“Betty’s phone,” Archie and Veronica say at the same time. “Where is she?” he adds.

“Oh.” Jughead grimaces and pushes the hair off his forehead. “She wanted a moment alone. Said she needed to breathe.”

“Wait, what?” Archie frowns. “That doesn’t sound like Betty. Why would she say that?”

“We – may have had a tiny discussion.” Jughead’s about to explain, but he’s interrupted by the tinny little tune again.

“Okay, that’s getting on my nerves,” Veronica states. “Why won’t she just pick up? And where is she, anyway?”

Jughead waves vaguely at the gate leading to a little alley. He’s about to tell Archie and Veronica it’s time for the two of them to leave when the Lollipop song bursts into the afternoon again with cheerful horror.

That’s it. He has to see what’s going on with Betty.

“I’m going to …” He doesn’t finish and heads to the gate, Archie and Veronica crowding after him as if they all can’t wait to find their missing friend.

#

The alley is empty.

“Huh.” Veronica purses her lips. “I parked around the corner. Maybe she’s in the Tesla?”

Jughead swings to face her. “You drive a Tesla? Holy shit. Are your parents oil barons or something?”

Archie nudges him, but the 50’s song erupts again. It’s become ominous, a carousel gone wrong.

“Oh, my God.” Veronica breaks forward into a run, swoops down, and picks up a plastic object. “It’s Betty’s phone, here in the dirt.”

His heart squeezing like a painful fist in his chest, Jughead hears his own voice say, “Where is she?” Breath is harsh and heavy in his lungs as Archie shouts Betty’s name. Veronica strides to her car, opens the door, peers inside.

The despair in her face as she closes the door nearly makes Jughead whimper. Betty's not in the car, not in the alley, not in Thornhill. She's disappeared.

“We have to do something.” Archie shades his eyes and peers down the empty road. “But what?”

As if in response, the lollipop song chimes again. Jughead reaches Veronica’s side, grabs the phone out of her fingers, and opens it. “Yeah,” he grunts. “Who the hell is this?”

A feminine voice, rich and breathy with youth, replies. “Hey, asshole. Who’s _this_? I’m trying to call Betty Cooper.”

His eyes widen. “Brenda? Is that you? Why the hell are you calling Betty?”

“Jughead?” He can hear the clink of glass as though the red-headed girl is at a bar. “Sorry, didn’t recognize your … Look, Betty gave me a book to read, and I just wanted to get her opinion on a review I wrote of it.”

“Wait just a second.” Jughead waves a frantic arm at Archie, who’s crowding forward and demanding to know who’s on the other end of Betty’s line. “Why are you calling Betty? I mean besides the book thing. You two don’t know each other.”

“She gave me her number. Well, I kind of stalked her after we met at your trailer that day – she’s just so amazing and smart and brave, you know? Makes you see the world in a whole new light. And she said I could call her whenever I wanted. And she lent me a bunch of books that made me rethink my life…”

“You stalked her?” Jughead cups the phone and hisses, “Andrews, back off. I’m on it. You too, Veronica.”

The two of them glower, looking similar for one moment in their stubborn anger. Veronica crosses her arms, and Archie subconsciously copies her.

“Brenda, this is important,” Jughead says. “Do you know where Betty is? And where are you?”

“I’m at school. Did something happen to Betty?” The girl hiccups. “Jughead, you’re scaring me. Is she okay?”

#

“East would take us into Sweetwater River, so we have to be going in the right direction.” Veronica’s at the wheel of her Tesla, driving down the road at top speed. “How long was your little pal Brenda trying to call Betty? And who the hell is she, while we’re on the topic?”

“She called three times.” Jughead ignores the second question, not wanting to get into the details of how Betty met Brenda. He’s in the back, arms wrapped around his middle to stop himself from flying apart. He wants to jump out of the car and run, wants to jump out of his own skin. The road leads past crumbling motels and strip malls. Betty could be in any of them, held in an unsavory room by an attacker.

“Betty wasn’t gone that long in that case.” Veronica eyes the huge readout on the dash, bigger than an iPad. “We have a chance to catch up with her, but we - well.”

“We don’t know which car she’s in, or if she’s even on the road any longer.” Jughead slams back against the seat. Realization, like a cracked egg to the skull, breaks over him. He's done nothing but _take_ ever since he met Betty: she’s given him her virginity, her trust, her secrets, and in return he’s done nothing but demand more. Somehow this girl has found the strength to step up each time when he’s needed her, and in return he’s turned away from her again and again.

And now she’s gone.

A wide palm slaps onto his knee. “Stop beating yourself up,” Archie says quietly, twisting in the front passenger seat. “It won’t help Betty and will just use up your energy. I’m calling Sherriff Keller right now, so we’ll be able to get help in a few minutes.” He waves his phone at Jughead.

“But…” Jughead sighs and subsides against the rich, black leather. “Yeah. Okay.” Of course they have to call the cops. Later he’ll probably get pulled in for questioning, maybe get sent to a few months of juvie, but it’ll be worthwhile if Betty’s safe.

Everything’s worthwhile if she’s okay.

The miles tick past. Veronica negotiates several red lights without stopping and, after a few minutes, taps the readout screen. “I should have charged the Tesla this morning,” she says. “We’ve got under fifty miles left, so hopefully…”

“Damnit!” Archie slams the phone onto his thigh. “No one’s picking up. I got sent to a messaging system, but it cut me off.”

“911?” Jughead suggests.

“Absolutely, call 911.” Veronica prods Archie with one pointed red fingernail. “Do it.”

Archie nods, punches his phone, and waits. In the back, Jughead tries not to remember all his crimes: anonymous boxes dropped off at shady warehouses, rivals roughed up behind the Twilight, girls serviced for information and goods. Any one of these could probably wreck his life for good…

But at least he’ll still be alive. And, if all goes well, Betty will also be alive, even if they can’t be together any more.

Archie turns to Veronica, frustration apparent in the cords popping in his muscular neck. “I keep getting kicked off the network. Can you try, Ronnie?”

“Say no more.” With all the insouciance of a duchess, Veronica orders her car to dial 911. They listen as the phone rings and defaults to static.

Archie shakes his head. “Are we in the Twilight Zone? I mean, we’re talking about a national service. I thought 911 owned their own satellites.”

“And it gets better.” Veronica grips the steering wheel. “I have maybe 45 minutes of charge left at this speed.”

What would Betty do? Jughead can picture her as clearly as if she sat in the car with them, bolt upright and next to him on the luxurious seat. _You’ve forgotten,_ she tells him. _You forgot the most important thing._

 _I’m sorry,_ he tells her in his vision. _Not for forgetting, because I don’t know what the hell you mean by that, but for all the times I took what you gave me and never gave back._

 _Archie’s like a broken clock,_ she says. _You actually can’t help me if you’re drowning – you know, in Self-Loathing Pond and all that. Get your shit together, Jones._

“She’ll be okay.” Veronica nods as though it’ll make her own words come true. “She’s smart.”

“She’s smart, but brains won’t stop a bullet.”

“Jesus, Archie! I’m going out of my mind. Why would you even say something like that?”

 _What did I forget?_ Jughead wonders. He goes over the events of the afternoon: Veronica bursting into the back rose garden from the little gate. Betty appearing shortly after.

He couldn’t hold back, he tells himself – he simply had to kiss her. As soon as she showed up in the garden, getting his hands all over her was all he could think about. If she were here right now, he’d slide her onto his lap, fist her hair, beg her to sink her teeth in his neck.

The argument in the front seat has devolved into an intricate argument about Archie’s inability to be faithful. Veronica says she trusted him, she loved him, she should have listened to her father in the first place…

_Oh boy._

Archie explodes. “I wasn’t good enough for you, is that what you mean? I should have been grateful when you were slumming around in the suburbs?”

“I wasn’t good enough for _you_. You made it clear Betty was the epitome of perfection. Every single day I’ve had to live with that.”

“Bullshit, Ronnie. Your father made me feel like I should have been your doorman, not your boyfriend.”

 _Doorman._ Like linked puzzle rings, everything clicks into place. “We’re not doing this.” Jughead shouts. “Not now. Veronica, did Betty say something to you about the door when you came into Thornhill?”

The girl stops in the middle of an impassioned speech about misogyny. “The door? What door?”

“The gate into the garden where we were.”

“Why are we talking about this?” Archie asks.

Jughead ignores him. “Betty said I needed to check out that gate. Did she say anything about it to you?”

“Oh.” Veronica shifts to pass a slow truck and pulls back into the right lane behind a VW bus and a blue souped-up Camaro. “Yeah, she noticed these little drawings scratched into the paint. She said they were called – uh - hobo marks, that’s it.”

“Did she – she didn’t happen to say if they meant anything?”

“Yes. Let me _talk_ , Archie. She said there were three marks. One had a weird meaning, like villain or bad guy. No, bad-tempered gentleman, that’s it – as well as the two others, which meant money and danger.”

“Money and danger. Holy shit.” Jughead tips back his head. “Remember the old lady I told you about, Archie, the one who said Thornhill was haunted? Those weren’t ghosts she was talking about. They were _Ghoulies_. A rival gang to the Serpents. And – let me finish, dude – the Ghoulies scratched those signs on the gate to mark Thornhill as a drop-off spot for JJ.”

“Jangle?” Veronica asks.

“Yeah.” Jughead sits forward. “I think the Ghoulies showed up while we were there just now, saw Betty, and took her with them.”

“Well, where do they hang out? The Whyte Wyrm?” Archie asks.

“The Wyrm Serpent territory.” Veronica cuts off Jughead’s exclamation of surprise with one airy wave. “I do pay attention when people talk, and if I’m correct, which of course I am, we’re headed in the right direction.”

“Which is what, exactly?” Archie asks.

“The House of the Dead,” Jughead says. “And Veronica is indeed correct.”

“This sounds like a bunch of crap, to be honest.” Archie shakes his head. “I think we should turn around, find a place where we can use our phones, and get the cops.”

“And just abandon Betty?” Veronica gasps, at the same time Jughead says _No, no way dude._

“You’ve got fifteen miles left,” Archie points out.

Veronica launches into a diatribe, calling him a downer and a naysayer. Jughead looks at his phone, and sees that it, like the Tesla, is about to die.

Miraculously, it also has one bar.

He sends a desperation text and hits send just as the screen goes black. Praying his message got through, Jughead stows the phone and looks out the window. They’re getting close to Ghoulie territory.

“Just pull over,” Archie repeats. "Now, Ronnie."

“That’s it.” Veronica slaps the steering wheel with both hands. “Get your ass in the back seat, and Jughead, you’re come up here with me.”

“Huh?” Jughead focuses on her. “Why?”

“Because Red here won’t shut up about pulling over and somehow finding great cell connection by magic, as if the WiFi fairy might fly overhead.”

“But you’re going to run out of charge in two minutes and have to pull over anyway,” Archie objects.

“The back of the car!” Veronica thunders.

Archie heaves out a long, put-upon sigh. With a great deal of grumbling, he maneuvers his capital-Y shaped body into the backseat, and watches with sad-puppy eyes as Jughead slides easily into the front.

“That's a nice upgrade.” Smiling, Veronica pats Jughead’s shoulder. “I’m feeling better already.”

“What are you going to do about that fancy date of yours?” Jughead asks. “With the choucroute to die for and the red satin dress and the Belgian food?”

She gasps. “Reggie! I can’t believe I forgot… and I probably can’t get through to him here… and what if the car dies? He’ll think I’m standing him up…”

In the back seat, Archie erupts with a crack of laughter. “Forgot! Classic! That would be so perfect to see Mantle waiting at La SpongeBob or whatever it’s called. How long d’you think he’ll last, Ronnie? Ten minutes? Half an hour?”

“Can we please just focus on …” Jughead begins.

He’s interrupted as Archie stops laughing and sits forward, pointing at the road. “Wait. Guys. _Guys_. Look at that.”

As he speaks, the VW bus turns off into a strip mall, leaving the blue Chevy Camaro in front of them.

Its new paint shines under the waning sun. Probably the owner has washed it recently, even buffed it with wax and soft chamois.

But what makes the car different from the thousands like it is in the back. The Camaro’s left brake light casing is out, and as Jughead watches, an arm protrudes from the hole and waves – once, twice, and a weary third flap as if the person has been doing it for a while and it growing tired.

An arm, Jughead thinks wildly. “That’s Betty," he says. "Oh my God, we’ve found her.”

The Tesla hums, slows, and inexorably comes to a stop. Slowly the lights blink out on the dash, and the radio dies. The charge, like Jughead's luck, has run out.


	14. The House of the Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spoilery trigger warnings in the end note.

Penny and Malachai may be brilliant criminals, but they've neglected to bolt down the brake light casing. After wriggling out of her bonds, Betty’s able to smash the red glass, stick her arm outside, and wave desperately for help. There’s nothing she can do other than pray that a trucker or bus driver sees and calls the police.

Other than that, her kidnappers have stripped the trunk. Although she squirms around and searches, Betty can’t find anything she could use as a potential weapon. She’ll have to rely on her strength, wits, and the element of surprise.

She’s spent a long time listening to engines. As a result, she can tell when a driver is getting close to a destination, and when she feels the Dart begin to weave left and right, she knows they're close. Pulling in her arm, Betty hopes Malachai doesn’t notice the missing brake light. With more wriggles and a great deal of cursing, she manages to get back into her bonds loosely enough to fool someone for a few seconds. She prays he's the one who undoes the trunk, since Penny strikes her as the brains of the duo and a lot harder to trick.

It’s dark and cold in the trunk. Betty forces her body to relax, not cramp up or seize with tremors. She hugs her knees and wishes Jughead was next to her. _It’s okay, Lampchop,_ he might say. _You can do this._

But she left him in the garden – and for what? Because he wouldn’t include her in a mystery involving Thornhill? What kind of a person does like that?

 _Shh,_ he’d say. _Find your way home and take me to bed, Lambchop. Take off my belt with your teeth and climb on top the way I like, where you torture me by barely moving and I beg you for more._

The car stops, and Betty forces her mind back to her solitary present. She has nothing, she reminds herself, except for her own stubborn determination. Waiting in the dark, Betty rehearses the moves she’s about to make: watch the trunk door open, wait one second to let her eyesight adjust to light, allow Malachai to sling her out of the car like a sack of potatoes. Heel of her hand to his nose and knee to his groin. Find weapon, run.

A key slides into the lock. Betty holds her breath. The old car yawns, and a silhouette peers into the trunk.

“We're here, blondie.”

Betty could cry with relief. It’s Malachai, and there’s no sign of Penny.

She lets him slide an arm under her waist and legs. _Breathe,_ Jughead tells her. _Get ready._

One deep inhale, and Betty dives into action. Malachai utters a strangled “Goop” as she kicks off the ropes, drives her knee into his crotch with everything she's got, and delivers a perfect upward slam to his nose. Does she hear something crunch?

_Don’t think about it, Lambchop. Run._

Betty arcs off the back of the car and sees that the tiny garage is impossibly, blessedly open. Her legs piston as she races for the space outside, a weeded and scrubby patch of land on the edge of some dirt road.

Greendale. That’s where they’ve ended up. She can tell by the general air of depression and dark mystery.

Spiked weeds tear at her skin. As she runs, words are jolted out of her. “Help!” Betty screams. “Help me!” The only response is a far whine of traffic from the far highway. The field she’s in is barren and seems to extend for miles. There are no houses except for the one she just escaped, a shadowy Gothic nightmare with porch railings that look like broken teeth.

 _Go,_ the boy in her mind says. _Go go go go go._

Movement behind her, a whiff of rotgut whiskey. "There," someone gasps.

Prongs biting into Betty's shoulder, a zzzt of electricity, and.

And

field

and

house

all

disappear

#

Betty wakes by falling off a metal chair. For a moment she’s bleary, vaguely registering several facts one at a time: she’s wet from head to toe. Her arm aches. Except for bra and underwear, she is naked.

“Bitch,” a voice snarls. Another wave of freezing water cascades over her, and for an instant Betty can’t breathe. She coughs, chokes, and blinks her way back to reality.

Malachai stands in front of her holding a bucket. His nose is red and swollen, giving Betty a surge of accomplishment. _I did that,_ she thinks.

_You sure did, Lambchop._

In the far corner, a bolt shoots home, followed by the squeal of rusty hinges. “Enough, Mal,” Penny says. The woman comes into the tiny room carrying a towel and drapes it over Betty’s shoulders. “Go make her food, peanut butter or bologna or something.”

“Yeah.” Mal’s giggle is high-pitched, hideous and demented. “Sure, boss lady.” With a quick kick at Betty’s ankle, he swivels and walks away.

“Ignore him.” Penny squats in front of Betty, pulls a pack of Marlboro cigarettes out of her shirt pocket, and shuffles one into between her lips. “Now, what are we going to do with you?”

“Let me go? I won’t say a word about what happened. I'll forget your face. Let me out of here, and I won't go to the cops, just straight home.”

One match scrapes against the cement floor, and Penny cups it to light up. “You know I can’t do that.” She punctuates her statement with a few smoke rings, narrowing her eyes as she considers Betty. “Fancy chick like you, got family and friends who'll come after you. Thing is, how can I use that to my advantage?”

Betty’s mind is sluggish with hunger, cold, and agony. “Negotiate,” she slurs. “Trade me for information or just cash. Or both.”

“Hm.” Penny leans her elbows on both knees and takes a few more drags. She seems to be considering Betty, the way you might view an interesting new exhibit in a zoo. “Not bad, but I’ve got bigger goals in mind. You showed up just at the right time.”

“My name’s Betty. You’ll probably start to hear APB’s when I’m reported missing. There’s going to be a hunt, first in Riverdale, next along Sweetwater to Greendale.”

Penny waves away smoke, takes one final drag, and puts out the butt under one boot. “Toilet's over there.  Mal will be back with food and water.” She gets up, dusts off her butt, and looks around. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Can I have a cigarette?” Betty asks. She might be able to use it later or even palm a match.

“You don’t smoke, Northside, so don't try it. Mal has straw in his skull, but I’m too smart for you, so just cut the crap.” Penny goes to the iron door and exits. A moment later, the bolt slams home.

Betty forces herself to calm down. She knows what Penny and Mal are doing, a sick version of Bad Cop / Good Cop to try and break her. She also knows after enough time and torture it will work. Since they haven’t tied her down, Betty stands up to explore the room. It’s tiny, a cinder-blocked space with no windows. Besides the chair and the toilet, the place is empty. Probably it’s underground. She could scream until her throat is raw and no one would hear.

The door stands flush with the wall, locking on the outside. There’s no keyhole.

Betty pads around the perimeter in bare feet, returning to the chair that's bolted to the floor. Whoever designed this cell has done an excellent job. She tries not to think about why it's here in this strange house in the middle of nowhere - who's been held in the place before, and what happened to them.

Keeping an ear out for Mal, Betty kneels by the chair and looks at the bolts holding it to the concrete floor. They’re tight, but she thinks she might be able to wrap the towel around her fingers to loosen them, given enough time.

Time. She barks out a short laugh. It’s the one thing she has left.

Footsteps outside, and the door crashes open, making Betty jump back into the chair. Mal stands with a bottle of water and Betty’s sandwich. He waves it under her nose, holds it out, waits for her to reach for the plate before snatching it away with another of those grating giggles.

He finally tires of the game after Betty ignores him. “Enjoy your meal, bitch,” he says.

Mal drops the plate on the floor. Deliberately he steps on the food, crushing it under one large boot.

A moment later, the door slams shut.

Exhausted by his petty cruelty, Betty considers the mess. She knows it’s important to eat any meals they give her in order to keep up her strength, but the thought of biting into filthy bread makes her retch in a series of sour gags.

At least she has water.

Betty unscrews the cap and drinks a few spare sips. Carefully she replaces the top and stores the bottle in one far corner. She prowls the room and sees that there are no cameras, only a small viewer hole in the metal door.

For a count of ten thousand, she waits. Then, alone and nearly naked in a concrete cell, Betty squats and wraps the towel around her hand before getting to work on the chair’s bolts.

#

Much later, she sleeps for a few jerky and exhausted minutes at a time, head cushioned on the towel, arms wrapped around her legs for some warmth.

After several horrifying dreams about shadowy figures punching her in the belly, she gets up and looks at the ruined food on the floor.

Some time after that, she eats the sandwich.

#

She drops off for a few seconds, starts awake again when the door opens. “Hey bitch!” Mal holds up a square of toast with peanut butter smeared over it. “Breakfast. You look like shit, by the way.”

He gives the bread his same treatment, squashed under one large and heavy boot, before leaving.

She waits, stomach quivering with shock. _Get a grip, Cooper,_ she tells herself. _Count to ten thousand. Take a sip of water. Work on the bolts, ignore how much your hands hurt._

#

A few hours later, she eats the toast.

#

Betty has always strived to control herself. Her life has been rigidly scheduled, portioned into cheerleading, writing, homework, exercise, college prep. Of course Jughead has become a large part of that equation. Now, when she has nothing left, Betty organizes when she can.

Work on the chair’s bolts until her fingers bleed. Stop for a rest. After the fifth attempt, have a sip of water. After countless rounds of this, she’s shaking. “I can’t,” Betty says. “Can’t do it again.”

_Yes you can, Lambchop. Come back to me, and we'll kiss until you're breathless._

Wiping away a few furtive tears, Betty goes back to her useless scrabbles with the chair bolts. “Useless,” she says through gritted teeth. “Useless stupid fucking bolts. I hate you so much. You suck, you suck, you suck.” At each repetition of 'suck', she gives the bolt a vicious twist.

And, on the third one, Betty feels the tiny hexagon move sideways.

Holding her breath, she twists the bolt. After a few misfires, the thing slips easily counterclockwise.

Betty’s whoop is interrupted by the loud sound of the door’s lock shooting back. With a gasp, she lunges into the chair just as Mal walks in. “Penny said I had to bring you water, and I’m not allowed to walk on your food.” He throws her a plastic bottle and two packs of cheese crackers. As she catches them, Mal wrinkles his nose. “There’s blood. You’re bleeding.”

A spear of anger shoots through her. Betty’s been starved, frozen, tied up – and for what? She still has no idea why she's been brought here. “It’s called a period,” she says coldly. “It happens when girls go through a very special hormonal change.”

“Ew.” Mal backs to the door, shuddering violently, and escapes.

“Asshole,” she mutters, and gets back to work.

There’s one more interruption. Betty manages to pretend to be asleep when Penny arrives with a plastic shopping bag looped over one wrist. “Hey,” the woman says softly. “Brought you some supplies.”

There’s nothing Betty wants to do more than jump up, spit in Penny’s face, and tell her to fuck off. But she counts to three and mutters, “How about clothes? I’m in my underwear here, and it's freezing.”

She sees Penny’s face change for a moment into an expression of victory that makes Betty nearly scream aloud. The woman looks like a harpy about to plunge a dagger into the chest of her enemies.

 _Don’t move,_ Jughead says. _The snake's about to strike._

Betty waits, barely breathing, until Penny drops the bag and leaves her alone in the frigid little cement box that has become . Her vision is spotted with exhaustion, but she can’t wait to get back to working on that damn chair. It’s become an obsession, the one thing she has left. Non-action, Betty thinks, is not an option.

Tongue sticking out of one corner of her mouth, she works on the final bolt. With exasperating slowness, the thing slides sideways and falls to the floor.

“Ohhh, yes, yes, yes.”

In celebration, Betty opens one of the packets and shoves an entire cracker into her mouth. She flexes and hoists the chair, carries it to the door, and covers herself with the filthy towel as a miniature and inadequate blanket.

The door is thick, letting in zero light and very little sound. She has no idea if it’s day or night. Does Betty hear a thump outside, a sharp and surprised cry, the pop of a muffled handgun?

No way to be sure. All Betty can do is huddle on the chair, her only weapon, and wait.

_I’m coming, Lambchop._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILER - 
> 
> This chapter includes violence and low-key torture, so if those are things that trigger you, please give this one a miss.


	15. Fire

After the charge runs down, Jughead and Archie manage to push the Tesla into the parking lot of a place called Happy Moon Motel. Although he’s never seen it before, Jughead is certain he’s heard of the place. Did FP stay there and mention it during some long, drunken story? The answer teases him at the edge of his memory, just out of reach.

Veronica, in true heroic fashion, doesn’t waste a second worrying about her pricey car parked in a junkie’s paradise. She strides to the road in the direction they’ve been going behind the old Dodge, and Archie and Jughead share a quick look before following her. It seems, for a moment, the unlikely trio has been united by the shared determination to find Betty Cooper.

An hour later, that resolution is failing. The heel has come off one of Veronica’s shoes, and Jughead has never been so hungry in his life. Just as he’s about to ask if anyone has anything to eat – gum, Mentos – anything at all – the skies open and start to pelt rain. All three of them are instantly soaked.

“Ugh!” Veronica says. “Perfect. Obviously this scene simply wasn’t dramatic enough. What’s next, dudes with hockey masks and hatchets?”

Her voice is strong, her chin lifted in the manner of a proud princess. Jughead can see, however, that Veronica’s fingers shake either with cold or exhaustion, and she’s starting to limp.

“Yo, Lodge,” he says. “Want a piggyback ride for a few miles? I’ll try not to fall in the mud and get us any dirtier.”

Both Veronica and Archie stop and stare and him with open mouths. “What?” she gasps. “I hardly know you. And I’m fine.”

“She’s fine,” Archie repeats. “And besides, if anyone’s giving Ronnie a ride, it’s going to be …”

“You know what?” Veronica reaches down, pulls off her other heel, and stuffs it into the generous pocket of her white jacket. “A ride would be great, Jughead. Thank you.”

#

Girls who look small become bloody heavy when it’s raining and cold and the next meal is nowhere in sight. Jughead learns this lesson forcefully as he plods along the dark road lit only by yellow blobs from the occasional streetlight, bowed under Veronica’s weight on his back.

“Sorry,” she says. “I know this sucks.”

“S’okay. Uh, no one has any crackers? Or candy? Or gum? Hell, I’d sell my soul for a Tic Tac.”

“I still think we should head back the other way.” Archie, like a stubborn mutt, keeps circling back to his original point. Veronica tells him to stick it up his ass and there’s no chance in hell they’re going to turn around at this point. Her voice grows along with her anger until Jughead finally has to point out that she’s shouting straight into his ear.

His feet hurt. His back is about to break in half. He’s going to faint from hunger, and Archie won’t stop arguing or telling Ronnie _he_ should be the one carrying her.

Except a slender girl is held against her will somewhere in the gathering gloom, so he forces himself to put one foot in front of the other and just keep going.

#

Five minutes or five hours later, Jughead’s not sure, he finally has to beg for a break. “Just let me catch my breath,” he wheezes, bending so Veronica can slide off.

“Back off, Archie, or I’m going to bury this Louboutin heel in your chest.”

The redhead, approaching her with a determined glint in his eyes, pauses. “Look,” Archie says. “Jughead’s ready to drop and your feet are fried. We need to think of another option.”

“Oh, please.” Veronica spreads both arms. “Tell us your magnificent plan, and don’t forget our phones don’t work.”

“Lost in the age of Uber.” Jughead’s about to shout up at the indifferent rainclouds when he hears the Doppler whine of an approaching vehicle. “Wait, is that a car?”

He turns and sticks out his thumb. Archie and Veronica instantly burst into the typical Northside litany of how hitch-hikers can get killed or worse, each trying to come up with the more gory scenario.

Just as Veronica details the works of Heelspring Jack, a charmer who liked to collect the eyes of his victims, the car pulls up and brakes beside them. Jughead has grown tired of Archie, but he feels a flicker of grudging respect when the kid inserts his muscular body between the car and Veronica to shield her.

The window rolls down, and a very familiar face peers out of the driver seat – one framed with pink hair.

“Got your message, dickhead. Looks like you could use a ride,” Toni grins.

Jughead beckons to the others and yells that it’s cool, he knows her. Muttering Thank You Lord Jesus, Veronica limps towards the back seat of the car.

Toni blinks, peers closer, and holds up one hand. “Oh no, sweet thing. You’re riding up front with me.”

#

The text Jughead sent before his phone died went through, carrying a GPS signature. It’s how Toni has found them, a process she details as they head back onto the road.

“Nice going,” Archie allows. “But where do we go now? I’m telling you, we need to…”

Veronica swivels in the front seat and pins him with a furious glare. “If you seriously say one more time that we should turn around, I still have this.” She waves her shoe in the air, and Archie subsides.

“I did a little reconnaissance,” Toni murmurs. “We’re near the lost highway off Route 40, and I bet you know what that means. Right, Juggie?”

He does know, and the knowledge brings zero comfort. “Holy shit. We’re close to – do you really think she’s there? But would they dare? They must know we’d bring down the hammer on their asses.”

“While it’s enjoyable listening to foreign languages,” Veronica states with an insincere Cheshire cat smile, “at this moment I find it extremely frustrating. What the fuck are you two talking about?”

“The House of the Dead,” Jughead explains. “It’s the Ghoulies house, except we chased their gang out years ago. The place has been empty since then, or so we thought.”

“House of the Dead,” Veronica repeats. “I suppose that’s fitting, although couldn’t we get a house called Pink Bunny Palace or Cozy Champagne Chateau? But no, obviously that’s too much to ask.” Archie snorts, and she gives him a bright grin.

“Their basement,” Toni says. “It’s where they held my grandpa back in the 60’s.”

Jughead covers his face and groans. “Been trying not to think about that. I heard there’s no way inside unless you know the secret.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Veronica pitches a long sigh and swivels her head to look at Toni. “Do you know where this House of the Dead is? You do? Fantastic, great, good. I’ve never felt so relieved yet so terrified at the same time.”

#

By the gray light of approaching night, The House of the Dead is dark and sodden with age. Once it might have been a gothic beauty, the location of afternoon teas and Sunday soirees. Victorian gentlemen probably gathered on the sagging porch to smoke cheroots and talk about politics while their wives and sweethearts ate finger sandwiches on a long, rolling lawn.

The land is no longer green or manicured. Weeds uncoil like green tentacles from a tortured and scrubby sea. There’s a small rectangular patch in one far corner that’s been dug up, leaving an open mouth that awaits… something. Jughead tries not to think too hard about what it means.

A window shade on the top floor sags like one eyelid of a newly-deceased corpse. The rest have been boarded up with crumbling slats stained a horribly suggestive red.

“Well!” Veronica says brightly as Toni’s old clunker slides past. “I suppose we can’t simply storm the castle. Any ideas?”

“I could call the Serpents,” Toni suggests. “But they wouldn’t arrive for another hour – yeah, I can see you shaking your head, Jughead. I understand you need to rescue your girl now. So what’s the plan?”

As she brakes out of view of the place, Jughead emits a long groan. “I got nothing.” He’s been so focused on finding Betty that he’s forgotten to plan the next step.

“I don’t suppose we could create a diversion,” Archie mutters. “Get those Ghoulies to the front of the house, and then storm in the back.”

“What kind of diversion, Red?” Toni scoffs.

“Oh, I don’t know. Dumb idea.”

“Actually,” Jughead says slowly, “a fire might work. That porch looks like one match would set it ablaze. One of us sneaks up and tosses a burning missile – stop laughing, Toni, you could use my shirt – and the rest of us find another way in.”

Veronica raises her beautifully-shaped brows. “That could definitely work.” She pretends to golf-clap. “Not bad, Archiekins.”

#

She, Archie, and Jughead crouch behind the house in a patch that might once have been a kitchen garden. Now it seems to be used as disposal. Jughead sees the cracked bones of what might have been a turkey, as well as intestinal coils of rope. Shuddering, Veronica points to a dead rat and Jughead whispers not to think about it.

Since their phones don’t work, they have to rely on a commotion from inside the house and their own instincts. Jughead crouches beside a back door, feeling his legs slowly cramp with the effort of holding still. The air grows steadily darker, and he can barely see Veronica.

They wait, and he tries not to think about failure. Of Toni getting caught. Of Betty never being rescued. Of all of them getting dragged to the basement with her…

A sudden cry, echoed by another. “Holy shit!” a guy yells. “Fire!”

“Here we go.” Jughead stands, his license in one fist. He jams the plastic card into the space beside the doorknob and feels a whoosh of satisfaction as the door clicks open.They climb inside and find they're in an ancient pantry, lined with shelves that stock nothing except cans of tomatoes.

“Penny!” the same guy yells. “Get your ass up here – the fucking house is on fire!”

There's no response.

Archie, with murder in his eyes, strides forward towards the unseen Malachai. Jughead darts after him, closely followed by Veronica. “Slow down,” Jughead hisses. “What are you planning to do…”

It’s too late. Archie bursts out of the pantry, into the hall. “Hey!” he shouts at a wiry figure who’s running towards them from the other end of the hallway. “Our friend Betty. Where is she?”

Malachai is followed by a much smaller figure, one Jughead would recognize anywhere. Toni Topaz is backlit by orange and red, a hellish backdrop. “The place was as dry as fat wood tinder,” she pants. “As soon as I dropped our little cocktail, the whole porch went up in flames.”

“Oh, my God!” Veronica gasps. “We have to get out of here!”

Archie doesn’t stop. He strides towards Malachai, catches the guy’s throat in one massive fist, and slams him against the wall. “I’m only going to ask you once,” the kid says. “And I’ll hold you here until you tell me the answer. Where’s our friend? Blond, ponytail? Betty? Tell me – now.”

“I can’t,” Malachai blubbers. “Penny’ll kill me. You don’t know what it’s like – she’s crazy. Coldest bitch I’ve ever met.”

His words are cut off as Archie tightens his hold, and Veronica pushes her way to his side. “Hi, Mal. Can I call you Mal? Listen, darling, we’re all going to be toast unless you tell him what he wants to know. Believe me, Archie’s as stubborn as a bull and twice as strong, so I suggest you do what he says.”

A loud explosion is followed by a crash. “The porch,” Toni says. “It’s falling in.”

Jughead thinks of Betty, wonders if she knows that her life is in danger. “I’ll make sure you get away,” he promises rashly. “Tell my dad to get you a ticket to Canada or wherever you want to go. Just tell us, now, where you’ve put her.”

Another crash, and Malachai screams. “The cellar! She’s in the basement!”

“Keys?” Veronica demands.

His face twists. “There are no keys. Only Penny knows the way in – you have to solve some puzzle or something like that.”

“Where – is – Penny?” Archie’s voice is deadly, and Jughead feels a reluctant stab of admiration for the guy.

“Downstairs. She went to talk to the prisoner, and she never…”

“Show us,” Veronica orders. “This second.”

#

The basement is accessed through a crawlspace shut off by a metal hatch door. Jughead and Archie force the wheel lock open while Toni shoves her switchblade under Malachai’s chin. Once the door is open, they descend into a nightmarish tunnel hewn into pure rock.

A tiny light clicks on, and Veronica waves her phone at Jughead. “At least it’s good for something,” she says. “Here, take it – and for God’s sake, hurry up before we’re all flambéed.”

He and Archie lead the way with an unwilling Malachai sandwiched between them. The guy has the nerve to babble about private property and his rights as a citizen. Jughead’s eyes connect with Archie’s, and it’s obvious they’re thinking the same thing: _Let’s dust this motherfucker if he doesn’t shut up._ Archie adds a vicious squeeze to Malachai’s armpit that makes the Ghoulie’s voice go up an octave.

Veronica’s phone highlights the tunnel, a passageway that might have been used for dried goods back in the day. Now, its purpose is shadier: they have to negotiate around some huge trunks locked with leather straps. One is even marked with a couple of letters, J J, and it's pretty certain they don’t stand for Jughead Jones.

“So far we’ve been lucky,” Toni says. “But this underground trail will become a chimney once the smoke really gets going upstairs. Got another way out, Malachai?”

“Maybe,” Malachai replies with an annoying grin, impressed with his own audactiy. Archie replies that he’s starting to become irritated which is when bad things start to happen, and Toni agrees.

“Yeah, me too, Red.” She punctuates the point with a flick of her switchblade.

Jughead loses the last of his patience. “News flash – we burn, you burn with us.”

After a boring interlude of blubber and swagger, Malachai finally reveals there is a way out from underground, but they’ll have to go back the way they came.

“Lovely,” Veronica marvels. “Well, you’re just going to have to step it up, aren’t you, big boy? If you don’t want to become a well-done steak, that is.”

About to applaud her noir dialgue, Jughead is brought up short. The tunnel has stopped short in front of a bookcase filled with dusty volumes. “I take it this is the puzzle?” he asks.

“Yeah. And only Penny knows the way inside.”

“For fuck’s sake.” Toni pushes past him and covers Jughead’s hand with hers so she can tilt the light over the books. “All of these are dusty and, ew, covered with cobwebs, except for Girl of the Limberlost there.”

“I loved Girl of the Limberlost!” Veronica cries, subsiding when Jughead frowns. “Sorry.”

Ignoring her, Toni bends and pulls Limberlost out on an angle. Instantly the bookcase shudders and sinks into the floor with the sound of grinding stone. It’s probably the coolest thing Jughead’s ever seen, and he’d rave over it if he weren’t so worried about Betty.

The sinking bookcase reveals a metal door fitted into the stone passage. There’s a single lock on the right side.

Archie claps Malachai’s shoulder. “All you,” he says. “Open up.”

“Penny’s got the only key.”

Jughead rounds on him. “You’re telling me we came all the way down here and you forgot to get the key?”

He’s about to add a lot more, how Malachai might be the stupidest, most annoying, ridiculous excuse for a gang member Jughead’s ever met, when there’s a shout.

From inside the door.

“Is that you?”

Betty’s voice.

Sagging with relief, Jughead feels his face crease with a smile. “Hey, Lambchop! Cavalry showed up and all that. Thing is we might have started a fire upstairs, and we don’t have a key to this door.”

“Oh.” There’s a pause, followed by a click. A moment later the door swings open, revealing Betty wearing nothing but underwear and a bloody towel. In the corner of the room lies Penny Peabody, tied from head to toe with a line of neat knots. The woman glares at them and wriggles like a furious caterpillar. “Here,” Betty adds, holding out a knotted string with the key. “I ambushed her when she showed up to give me more Stockholm Syndrome business, but I wasn’t having any. Not today.”

Jughead seems to leave his body for a moment. When he comes to, he’s wrapped around Betty, murmuring into her ear how amazing, how brave, how incredible she is.

“Hey.” Toni’s voice cuts into their little interlude. “This is sweet and all that, but we’ve got to run before we, you know, die.”

#

Archie goes first, holding Veronica’s phone in one hand and Malachai’s scruff in the other. Toni and Veronica follow. Betty is next, wearing Jughead’s flannel.

He brings up the rear. Penny is slumped over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, and he’s certain no one has ever weighed so much or deserved rescue so little.

As they pass the locked crates, Penny begins to wriggle. “That’s a lot of money in Jangle,” Malachai says, pointing to the boxes.

“Yeah?” Veronica replies. “And now it’s a bunch of shit.”

As she speaks, tiny ghosts of smoke start to wind towards them. “Now,” Jughead says. Toni has sliced up the towel Betty was wearing and drenched the material from one of the bottles of water in Betty’s basement cell. They’re not perfect, but perhaps the improvised masks will get them through the fire and outside.

He holds the wet scrap over his nose, eyeing Penny. She’s just going to have to hold her breath. The smoke’s already becoming a fog that blurs their vision. “Just keep going,” Archie says, his voice muffled through his mask. “I can see something up ahead.”

Upstairs there’s another crash, making Veronica shriek. Instantly the smoke thickens. “Go go go,” Jughead urges. When Penny begins to struggle he adds in a vicious undertone, “Keep it up, lady, and I’ll dump your ass. You’ll end up burned alive.”

The smoke doubles. It’s filled with little flecks of burning ash, scorching Jughead’s cheek. All they have are these silly wet rags, and there’s no way they’re going to survive.

_Sorry, dad._

Past the stairs to the foul kitchen, and Jughead realizes he’s able to see the silver-blue blade of Archie’s improvised flashlight. It shivers over walls, more chests, and –

A door.

Another door, set into the passage.

Lunging forward, Archie twists the handle. Like a miracle, the thing opens, framing a set of stairs with starry sky beyond.

Fresh air rushes into the passage, and Jughead vaguely remembers something he learned about oxygen and fire in chemistry class. “Hurry!” he shouts. “This whole place is about to become a Bunsen burner!”

There’s a mass exodus of confused bodies bumping up the steps. Jughead nearly trips under Penny’s weight, but Betty is right there to steady him, lead him up the final few feet out of the way.

“Run!” Veronica shouts. “The house is caving in!”

Years later, Jughead will remember how it felt – his shoulder singing with pain, eyes blurred, chest heaving with smoke inhalation, intense heat from the flames behind them, the bumpy ground under his feet.

And Betty beside him, making it all worthwhile.

#

Toni drives with Betty in the passenger seat. Archie, Veronica, and Jughead crowd in the back with Penny, still tied up. Malachai is in the trunk.

Once they leave the lost highway, Veronica’s phone chirps to life. “Hey,” she says. “Got a signal.”

Betty turns to face her friend. “Call the cops,” she says. Her eyes are smudged with purple, and Jughead’s stomach twists when he sees how pale she is. Exhaustion? Fear? Pain? Probably all three. He leans forward to stroke her skin, and she turns to face him. “We need to hand these two over to Sherriff Keller.”

Jughead nods, but he can’t help noticing how she’s avoided his touch. _Stand down,_ he tells himself. There’s a job to do, and Betty just escaped from a really shitty situation. He’s lived a century in the past few hours, and all he wants is to get rid of these assholes and take her to bed – but they have miles to go before they sleep.

The minutes crawl by. Malachai thumps the trunk repeatedly, but after the fourth or fifth time Toni slams on the brakes as a warning.

He shuts up after that.

For the first time in his life, Jughead breathes a long sigh of relief when Toni pulls up outside the station. The two fucksticks will soon be wearing Keller’s bracelets, and he can finally bring Betty home.

They pile out of the car, Penny pulled into Archie’s firm grip. It's getting late, and Jughead is hungry, and he wants wants wants his girl so badly.

He and Toni walk to the trunk. She pulls out her keys, and the lid flies up. Malachai sits up, already mouthing a slow of threats and obscenities. It’s as if he’s been waiting to explode, like a shaken bottle of cheap champagne.

As Toni waves her switchblade under Mal’s nose and tells him to zip it, Jughead hears Betty shout, a cry of warning.

“Arch, look out! No, not…”

The trunk lid slams on Malachai’s knuckles, causing another stream of foul language. Jughead sees several images blink into his brain like flashes of a camera.

Penny, running to the trees behind Sherriff Keller’s office. Betty, jumping to Veronica’s side. Archie, catching the girl in his arms.

A red stain spreading over Veronica’s white shirt like a deadly rose.

And the rage in Betty’s voice as she throws back her head and screams at the indifferent stars.


	16. Three Words

Archie sits with his head bowed and sweatshirt hood up so Betty can’t see his face when she walks in the hospital waiting room. No one’s allowed to pass the dragonish nurse sentry who sits at a huge console to monitor Veronica’s visitors. For a week only V’s parents have been to see their daughter, a hellish seven days that Archie’s spent waiting for his chance.

Carefully Betty moves a pile of old Golf Today magazines and sits beside him. “Arch, you were here yesterday and the day before that. Have you been home at all?”

“Hospital kicked me out after dinner. I came back before breakfast.” He looks up, eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion or worry. “I love her, Betts. What if she leaves me and I never get to tell her that I finally figured out my own dumb, stubborn heart?”

“I bet she already knows.” Betty props her arm around his shoulders and gives him a quick, fierce hug. “Did you see her mom? Any news?”

“Nothing yet.” He shudders. “I’ve been such an idiot. She was right. You were right. I spent my time chasing after girls I couldn’t have just because I thought they were out of reach.” Archie lifts his head to look at her, his gaze direct and dark. “Thought _you_ were out of reach. But it turned out I had what I wanted all along.”

Betty can’t hold back a quick snort. “Yup, you were an idiot,” she informs him. “But forget all of that nonsense. We just need to concentrate on that brave girl lying there.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Archie tips up his chin. “How are you after your ordeal? I can’t even imagine, Betty. It must have been like being buried alive in that basement with no one to talk to except two freaks.”

“Ghoulies,” she corrects. “And, yes, you’re exactly right. I felt incredibly powerless, like there was no way out unless I clawed through the walls. But Veronica got badly hurt – I just broke a few nails.”

Carefully he takes her hand between his large palms. “But you’re not fine, right? You’ve probably got injuries that wouldn’t show up on any CAT scan.”

Her smile feels shaky. “Archie Andrews, look at you being all empathetic. When did you grow up?”

“When Ronnie got hurt.” He pulls her in, and it’s good to be in Archie’s arms without feeling squicky or awkward about it. They’ve been through the fire, emerged on the other side, and the reward is a return to their comfortable friendship. If only Veronica could be there, or…

“Pardon me,” a low and deadly voice says behind them. “Did I interrupt something important?”

Betty disentangles herself from Archie’s arms. “Hey,” she begins. “I know I’ve been…”

“Ignoring my texts and calls? Yeah. You have.” Jughead, his face pale and shadowed with purple smudges, turns and strides out of the room. His shoulders are thrown back as if he’s going into battle. “Wait!” she shouts, but Archie stops her.

“Betty.” The word is low, insistent. “Hold on. I just got a text from Mrs. Lodge, and Veronica wants to talk to you.”

#

“You put my daughter’s life in danger, went up against drug dealers, burnt down their house, and didn’t even think to call the sheriff?” Hiram’s eyes look convex, like those of a circling shark.

“Hey!” Archie protests. “We did try to call Kevin’s dad, but there was no service.”

Betty figures it’s time to put on her Perfect Girl Next Door mask and distract them from Archie’s arguement. “You’re absolutely right, Mr. Lodge, and we apologize. I’ll never forgive myself for putting your daughter at risk.”

He raises one finger. “Well, let me tell you that doesn’t even begin to…”

“Dad,” Veronica says weakly from under a pile of blankets and white sheets. “Stop blaming the victim, who’s also my best friend by the way, or I’ll crawl out of here to the Whyte Wyrm and take on the Serpents all by myself. Don’t think I won’t.”

“Ronnie!” Archie lurches towards her bed. “Ronnie, hi. It’s Archie.”

“Thanks.” Veronica doesn’t seem to have injured her dry sense of humor. “For a moment there I thought Prince Harry had come to visit me in the hospital and here I was without a fascinator.”

“I’m so sorry about everything that happened, and if you’ll let me I’ll spend the rest of my life making up for it. I love you, Ronnie.”

“Making up for what?” Hermione Lodge raises one deadly eyebrow.

“Enough,” Veronica orders. “Out of here, all of you, except for Betty. I need to talk to my girl.”

After several minutes of grumbles and one final pointed warning, Hiram and Hermione leave the room. Archie follows, giving Veronica a puzzled look before the door swings back on his nose.

“Peace at last.” Veronica gestures to a chair in the corner. “Talk to me.” Betty pulls the seat forward, saying last time she checked Veronica was the one in the hospital, but her friend waves off the half-hearted protest. “And don’t give me that bullshit you’ve been spreading around, don’t ask me how I know, I’ve met you. You’re _not_ okay.”

The chair is squishy and uncomfortable at the same time. Betty sits gingerly and clasps her hands over one knee. “It was dark in the basement. Cold. They took my clothes, V, and I had nothing but a towel. Sometimes Mal showed up – he was awful – and then Penny would appear to bring me meals and fake sympathy.” Her voice wavers. “She was worse.”

“Oh, sweetie.”

“The worst was being out of control. I – I don’t know if I can ever do that again.” Betty doesn’t want to continue down that road. If she does, she’ll have to confront the hideous shadows she’s been avoiding for the past week. “V, guess what? Archie said the same thing to me out in the waiting room before we came in. He told me I wasn’t okay, and probably my wounds weren’t the type doctors would see.”

“Oh yeah?” Veronica’s face, pale and smudged with exhaustion, grows thoughtful. “Huh. I didn’t know he had it in him.”

Betty warms to her task. This is what she does the best, after all - solve problems for others. “He’s been here every minute waiting to see you. The nurses had to give him the hook when visiting hours ended. And he’s done nothing but talk about you, how he loves you and doesn’t deserve you, on and on.”

“He’s not wrong.” Veronica’s sigh is followed by a tiny grimace of pain. “Oh no, B. I feel forgiveness coming on. How long should I torture him for? Five weeks? Six? Five means I get to climb that big ginger lug like a tree sooner, but six means more muff diving and a nicer piece of jewelry as an apology present.”

Betty begins to laugh for the first time in days but stops when V begs her not to make her stomach split open with mirth. “Well,” she says, “even if you choose the longer option, most of it will be spent in here.”

“Humph. You’re not a comfort, Cooper.”

#

Standing beside her dad’s truck, Betty experiences it again: the feeling that she’s underground with tons of earth and stone weighing down on her. For a moment she feels like Kate Sutton in The Perilous Gard, struggling to survive under constant pressure from above.

_Squeeze your eyes shut. Tell yourself it’s not real. Grip the metal door handle so tightly your knuckles feel like they might split open…_

“Stop.”

Betty shrieks and whirls, her heart a fluttering luna moth caught in a cage of bone. Archie raises palms and eyebrows and emits a loud Woah there Betty. “Sorry. It just looked like you were in a bad place right now and you needed a way out. But that’s not all I wanted to tell you,” he adds. “I, uh, that is, Jughead called me a few times after he couldn’t get through to you this week. Betts, he and I kinda bonded when we were looking for you, and it turns out he’s not such a bad guy.”

“I don’t know if I can. It’s difficult, Arch. What if I've driven him away forever by being a dope, an even bigger dope than you are?”

“Trust me. No one's dopier than me.” The warmth in his brown eyes makes her teary, and she blinks.

Recovering her poise, Betty nods and shoves her hip against Archie’s. It feels really good to have found their rhythm again. “You might try visiting Veronica. She was in a much better mood about things when I left.” One good turn, she reflects, deserves another.

After a huge and bone-crushing hug, Archie rushes crabwise towards the hospital. Betty climbs into the truck and pulls out her phone to take a look at what she's been avoiding. “It’s time,” she tells herself.

The scroll of texts begin with surprise, confusion, and gradually bleed into anger. _You can’t even face me,_ Jughead has asked repeatedly. _Can I at least get a reason why?_

Betty shudders, starts the truck, and shifts into gear. She heads towards Sunnyside, whispering quotes from Jane Eyre so she won’t pull over and turn around: “I am no bird, and no net ensnares me, I am a free human being with an independent will.”

The truck turns into the trailer lot and bounces past a burning trash barrel, a rusted-out Studebaker, several abandoned refrigerators. Some of the trailers look cared-for, clean and tidy like scrubbed toddlers dressed up for church, others are the essence of despair.

FP’s is neither, a place under a few scrubby trees. It’s simple – dignified, even.

She parks the truck, turns off the ignition, gives herself one minute to collapse over the steering wheel. What if she walks inside and sees Jughead with another girl again? It was hard enough last time, and now … now the stakes are higher.

The gravel crunches under her boots, old wood of the trailer steps squeak as she climbs them, aluminum door shivers as she taps. Almost immediately it gets flung back, and a furious Jughead thrusts his face out. “Jesus, Sweet Pea! I said I’m not fucking going to the Wyrm…” His voice dies down. “Oh. It’s you. What, you want to talk to me now? You’ve decided to give me the time of day? How many texts did I send, Betty – fifty? A hundred? I’m Southside trash, so you’re just going to dispose of me, is that it?”

“Could we please sit down and talk?” Betty begs.

His eyes, always so pale and direct, focus on her as if he’s seeing something new. Jughead swipes one palm over his mouth and jaw, steps back, and gestures towards the old folding table in the kitchenette.

#

They regard each other over mason jars of iced coffee. Betty shakes in a packet of sugar, picks up the plastic spork he’s handed her, and stirs. “Looks good,” she comments.

His hand smacks the table, a loud gesture of frustration. “Damn it! You can’t just waltz in here after avoiding me for a week and tell me my beverage selection is above par.”

“I’m so sorry.” Carefully she sets the glass down, afraid she might drop it. “The truth is I’ve been afraid to say what I need to say.”

Jughead’s breath whistles suddenly, and his eyes glisten. “You’re done with me? Just like that? What, I gave you your first roll in the hay, and now you can move on? That’s such bullshit. I’m a _person_ , not just a convenient experience.”

Betty leans forward. “That’s not it. After I spent all those hours in the basement of The House of the Dead, I’m having a rough time even _imagining_ intimacy. To be underneath you…”

“You’re usually on top,” he murmurs. “Sorry, go on.”

“I don’t know if I can even give you a hug or let you kiss me.” She squeezes her eyes shut to force back burning tears. “And I know sex is important to you, and I know our dalliance started that way, and I can’t ask you to wait for me to get my shit together.”

“Dalliance! Important! Wait for you!” Getting up so forcefully his chair tumbles backwards with a defeated crash, Jughead plants both fists on the table. “This was never just about sex for me, not after our first night, anyway. I was planning to tell you three very important words, vital to me at any rate. But if you think we’re just fucking around, then tell me now because I want to get the heartbreak over with so I can ruin my life with booze and street-racing in the grandest tradition of rejected suitors.”

Furious as he is, in that moment he looks incredibly young. “I was planning to say three words to you as well,” Betty mumbles.

“Oh.” His exhausted features crease in a bright smile, making Betty’s heart flip. “Well, in that case.” Jughead suddenly goes down on one knee. “Remember the story I told you, the night after you caught me here with Brenda?”

“Yes, of course I do. It made me cry, as I recall.”

“I’ve been thinking about that lately. Maybe we’re doing things backwards. We started with incredible sex from day one, but what if we went back to the beginning? What would you think if I did call you up on the phone and asked you on a date? And you wore a blue dress? And I brought you flowers? And we went to the movies, and had milkshakes at Pops afterwards?”

“Really?” Her intake of breath cuts like an exacto-knife to the lungs. “You’d do that for me?”

“For fuck’s sake, Betty. I spent nearly 12 hours on the run with Archie Andrews of all people when you went missing. Of course I’d…” A thought seems to strike him, and he bites his lip. “Actually, no, I can’t do that. Hate to bring economics into this, but I’m flat broke.”

“Oh!” It’s her turn to surprise him. “Um, the Blossoms are back from Paris, and they gave me this.” Betty opens her purse and produces a thick envelope. “It’s the rest of your payment for taking care of Thornhill.”

“Really! How fortunate and apropos.” There’s that smile again, wicked and tender. “I suppose you’d better take your leave, missy. I need to work up my courage, call you on the telephone, and ask you out on a movie date.”

“I suppose I’d better.” Relief makes her weak, as if she’s boneless.

#

39 seconds later, as she maneuvers the truck to avoid a Sunnyside pick-up basketball game, Betty’s phone rings. “Hello? May I ask who’s speaking?” she asks primly, knowing exactly who it is.

“Miss Cooper, this is Jughead Jones. I was wondering if you are free this Friday night to go to the movies with me?”

“Why, Mr. Jones.” Betty grins and downshifts. “That sounds most agreeable. I would be delighted.”


	17. Brown Paper and Strings

Life tumbles back into Jughead’s version of normality. He moves back into the trailer, returns to school, and reluctantly begins to work on a huge backlog of assignments. Betty texts him that she’s also catching up, although he’d bet she’s got a color-coded chart and complex plans for her return to civilization. His method is to work at the old kitchen table each night until he face-plants into his math book from exhaustion and sheer boredom.

As the week uncoils, he fingers the thick envelope of cash and recounts the money. It’s a ridiculous amount, more like a casino pay-out than a week’s salary for doing nothing more than living in a stranger’s guesthouse. It prickles Jughead until, unable to stand it any longer, he climbs onto his bike and heads to Thornhill to get some answers.

#

Thornhill’s massive front gate is locked, and no one answers when Jughead speaks into the intercom, requesting admission to see Cheryl Blossom. He backs up, squints at the mansion against the setting sun, and wheels his bike to the side alley. It’s what Betty would do – if one entrance doesn’t work, try another.

To his surprise, the door set into the side wall is open, revealing a scene bright with color. A string quartet plays muted music in one corner of the garden, and women in pastel silks with matching hats flit like butterflies over the long lawn. One man in raven black and a terrible red wig stalks amongst them, stopping to mutter to one of the maids. The girl he talks to nods and, when the man turns to speak to one of the guests, wipes away furtive tears with her starched cuff.

“Bastard,” Jughead swears. Without considering the consequences, he pushes the gate open and bounds inside, intending to confront Clifford Blossom. This must be the man with his fake hair and condescending attitude. No one, in Jughead’s opinion, is more deserving of a swift kick to the rear.

His impetuous entrance is stopped by a small fist wrapped in the leather of his collar. “Oh, no you don’t. Stop it right there, Lochinvar.”

The girl confronting Jughead is tall, slender, with hair that’s even longer than Brenda’s ringlets. “Who are you?” he scowls.

“Moi? Only the daughter of the house.” Her gaze flicks over him like a serpent’s tongue. “You’re the caretaker, right? The one who ran off and left our house unattended?”

“About that.” Jughead makes a sudden decision and pulls out the thick envelope of cash. After all, it doesn’t really matter what he and Betty do on their upcoming date – they can stand outside a Starbucks and smell the coffee, for all he cares. “Your father paid me way too much for a simple job. Give him back his cash, and tell him I don’t like being bought off.”

She snatches the envelope from his fingers, ruffles the bills with one expert finger, and frowns. “There’s over a thousand dollars in here. Why would Daddy give so much money to a nobody?”

“I think we’re done here.” Jughead backs toward the gate, suddenly unable to breathe. The atmosphere inside the lovely garden with its rosebuds and chamber music suffocates him like a silk scarf tied over his face. He can’t wait to return to Sunnyside’s trashed trailers and pick-up basketball games.

No one stops him as he leaves. The hobo glyphs on the outside of the wall have disappeared, Jughead notices as he closes the side entrance to Thornhill – painted over by coats of scarlet paint. It’s impossible to guess anything strange was ever written on the gate at all.

But when he stops at the bodega for milk on the way home with his final few quarters, Jughead finds a thick roll of ones tucked inside his jacket pocket.

#

Betty drives them to the movies in her father’s truck, since Jughead still doesn’t have an extra helmet for the bike. Her skin is pure cream against a red t-shirt, long legs bared by her denim skirt and cheap flip flops, and Jughead has never seen anyone look so pure.

“I don’t mind taking the bike,” she smiles. “In fact, I can’t wait to try it out.”

“Maybe you can learn how to drive it.” Jughead can’t believe what he’s about to say next. “But I thought we should talk about what you told me in my trailer a few days ago. Are you okay sitting next to me? Can I put my arm around you? Okay to kiss you good-night?”

Betty down-shifts, one corner of her mouth dimpled as if she’s considering carefully what to say next. “No arm. No kiss. I just can’t. As for sitting next to you, that’s why I’m here.”

“Okay.” He means what he says, but as they park and head into the movies, buy drinks and a bucket of popcorn, watch previews and the blare of credits in the dark theater, Jughead isn’t so sure. Even as he wants to respect Betty’s needs he needs _something_ , some type of contact to ease the noise in his head. It feels like forever since she rode him, one hand firm around his throat. “Your breath is mine,” Betty had said, and it was amazing to be so cared for, the entire focus of Betty’s world. He needs to feel that again, even if they don’t have sex.

Her arm leans on the seat, and when he puts his next to hers without touching, Betty meets his eyes before she nods her head slightly. This tiny mark of approval bolts through Jughead’s body, buzzing like an addict’s first hit after weeks of sobriety.

He can’t hold back the memory of Betty controlling him. Telling him what to do. Pulling his hair so she could bite his neck. Tweaking his nipple between the pale ovals of her nails – who knew he was so sensitive there – until he nearly lost it from one touch.

After surviving the movie, he's even able to suggest Pops for milkshakes. Cheryl’s roll of ones crinkles in his pocket, and Jughead can’t think of anyone he’d rather spend the money on other than this beautiful, smiling girl.

But when he and Betty are tucked into opposite sides of a back booth, when the baskets of onion rings and burgers are delivered, when Betty sneaks a scoop of whipped cream from his milkshake, Jughead realizes that, for the first time in his life, he’s not going to be able to eat the food in front of him. It’s all so reminiscent of their first time when he stole her cherry, and he feels like he’s coming apart.

“Betty,” he says helplessly. “I can’t do this.”

Her smile vanishes. “Do what? Can’t – date me? Can’t be with me unless sex is on the agenda? Is that it? Things get difficult and you’re out of here?” She stands, jams her leather envelope of purse under one arm, and glares at him. “It would have been nice if you explained from the beginning and saved us a few hours.”

“Wait.” Jughead stands as well, facing her. She’s shorter than he is, and her uptilted face under the diner’s neon lights is a study in bright colors and shadows. “I don’t mean that. We don’t have to do anything if that’s what you want, but it’s been so terrible without you, and I just need to – to be on my knees. I need you to tell me what to do. I’m about to crawl out of my skin. You could – hell, you could drop me off at my dad's and call me and give me some orders, tell me what to do, but just. Please.” He ends with a long, shuddering gasp.

Betty’s mouth forms a scarlet oval, a silent Oh. “Baby boy,” she says. “Do you know what? Let’s get this food packed up to go.”

#

They sit cross-legged in her tree house, a burning candle between them. Betty’s skin glows in the candle-light, her jaw looking even sharper than usual. “How are you doing?” Jughead asks. “Do you think a lot about what happened?”

“No. Probably that’s why I dream about it so much. Each night I think I’m back in that basement room, and then I wake up in my bed with tears running down my face.”

“I never should have let you leave the garden that day.” Jughead reaches out, curls his fingers, withdraws before they touch. “Speaking of which, I went back to ask the Blossoms why they gave me so much money for house-sitting.”

Interest blooms in her eyes. “Who did you talk to?”

“The girl, the one with all that hair.”

“Ah.” She leans back on her wrists. “Cheryl. I’m betting you heard quite the mouthful.”

“Indeed. The hobo marks are gone, by the way.”

“Interesting.” Carefully Betty holds up her palm and signals for Jughead to do the same. He mirrors her, not touching. Their hands are so close he can nearly feel the beat of her pulse, an electromagnetic tingle. “Juggie, do you think the Blossoms were involved with the Ghoulies?”

“Well, yeah. That’s what Archie and I found out that day you and Veronica found us at Thornhill. There were drugs in the barn…”

Betty pulls back her arm, leaving Jughead’s hand hanging awkwardly in mid-air. “But why didn’t you tell me that day? Did you think I would tell someone or freak out?”

“Yeah, that was possibly my worst decision ever, probably coming from an internalized streak of misogynistic protection.”

She raises one eyebrow, a note of censure. Like her little nod in the movies, it goes straight to Jughead’s veins. “You need more, right?” Betty demands.

All he can do is jerk his head in assent.

“Okay. You have to promise me – again – no more secrets, no more lies. No more shutting me out of your life because you think I can’t take it.”

“No more,” Jughead promises.

Betty opens her purse and take out a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, like an object from a schmaltzy tune. “I never got to give you this. My mom found us at Thornhill before you could open it.”

“A gift?” Other than the phone from his dad, Jughead can’t remember the last time someone gave him a present. “For me?”

Betty smiles suddenly. “Yes, for you.”

Jughead undoes the knot, takes out his knife to slit open the tape, and folds back the brown paper. Inside there’s a collar made of slim black leather, supple under his touch. He can’t talk for a minute, just feels his mouth drop open.

“I promise it’s made for people, not dogs,” she laughs. “It’s small so no one will see it or even know it exists. You don’t have to wear it, but I thought that now it could be a way for us to stay connected.”

 _Connection._ That’s what he’s been craving, even though he hasn’t realized. Jughead unfolds the collar and holds it up to his neck, closing his eyes when the leather touches the flesh of his throat.

“Would you like me to buckle it on for you?”

Jughead has been so intent on his gift that she’s sidled behind him unnoticed. “Don’t move,” Betty orders. He can picture her sliding the strap through the buckle as she tests its fit. “Juggie,” she says again. “Don’t. Move. I won’t say it again.”

He holds his breath and waits. When he opens his eyes again, she’s back in place, sitting opposite from him by the candle. Carefully he raises his hands to touch the slender strap around his neck, just tight enough. He blows out a long breath, able to relax at last. “You’ve collared me,” he says.

“Is that all right?”

“It’s perfect.” His skin pulses as though he’s swallowed starlight. “I want to wear it in front of everyone, maybe to some committee meeting where you’re giving a speech the way you do, all low voice and controlled passionate intelligence, and everyone is spellbound, but nobody knows you’ve collared me or what we…” _will do at night when we’re alone_ is what Jughead wants to say, but he manages to turn it into a cough. “Anyway,” he finishes lamely.

Betty’s mouth twists in a one-sided smile. “Are we going to eat these burgers or what?”

#

They toast each other with milkshakes and talk about Thornhill, the Ghoulies, and Penny. Betty describes her time in the basement, and Jughead tells the story of his chase. In between bites of cooling onion rings and fries, he reveals the bones of his novel, growing slowly in the old notebook under his bed.

When they’ve finished, Betty stands up. “Walk me to my door?

Jughead follows her down the ladder, admiring the strength in her thighs and the perfect line of her jaw. The wet grass soaks his boots as they head to her back door under a tiny portico hanging with clematis vines.

Betty climbs the steps. With one hand on the doorknob, she looks up at Jughead. “You can kiss me good-night if you like.”

“Really?” The idea buzzes through his veins.

“Yes. Um, on the cheek though, if that’s okay.”

“Of course it’s okay.”

Is there anyone out there in the darkness? Jughead thinks he hears the bushes rustle, but he’s too intoxicated by Betty’s warmth and the subtle perfume of her hair. Carefully, waiting to see it she’ll flinch, he bends and brushes her cheekbones with a slight brush of his lips and it’s soft, tender as poetry written on old parchment.


	18. A Thief in the Dark

The ping of a text wakes Betty from her dream about underground mazes and footsteps behind her. There's no comfort there, only the sound of her gasping breath and the unsettling way the maze walls seem to be alive. When she touches the stones, Betty hears a voiceless scream inside her head. It's as if the underground space calls out to her pursuers:  _Come and get her, she's over here!_

These nightmares happen most night, leaving her breathless with horror . But when she wakes, it's even worse. The sensation of being completely alone hits her like a spear, punching a hole through her chest.

She rolls over, grabs her phone, and squints at the message. It's a picture of Jughead, nude except for the collar. Dark lashes fan on his cheekbones, eyes closed in ecstasy as he strokes the leather strap around his neck with both hands. His fingertips are soft, reverent.

He’s not with another girl, not even touching himself. Jughead might as well have Property of BC tattooed on his shoulder.

_Oh._

Betty nearly drops the phone. Desire pours through her like liquid gold, a sensation she’s thought has disappeared over the past few weeks. His selfie is shot from the waist up. Still, she can feel his sexuality, almost smell it in the air. It’s as stark as the dark trail of hair on his belly like a road sign to dark mystery.

Without thinking, Betty calls him. “Are you alone?” she asks as soon as he picks up.

“Are you really asking me if I’m alone after midnight, you scandalous wench?”

Jughead’s voice is filled with teasing affection, and the heat in her veins reaches boiling point. “If you are,” Betty whispers, “I’m coming over.” Will she be able to go through with it? It’s hard to care about that any longer. At this moment, she can't stay in her room by herself.

His humor seems to disappear, and he inhales sharply. “Are you sure?”

She’s not sure. But at that moment, Betty feels there’s no other choice.

#

A flickering streetlamp glares down at the trailers of Sunnyside. The Jones trailer away from the orange circle of light, hidden in a tiny hollow under a knot of old oaks. Betty parks the truck as close as she can. Perhaps the idea of driving out in the middle of the night is a crazy idea even for her, but the thought of soft leather on softer flesh has gripped her and won’t let go.

She places both palms on the steering wheel, inhales, and lets out a long breath.  _It's now or never._ Betty slides out of the truck, landing on a crumpled Coke can. It looks like some kid stomped on the middle, maybe walked around with the can on his sneaker like an improvised tap shoe.

With a sudden grin, Betty kicks the can under her front tire. She can pick it up later for recycling. If all goes well that will be much, much later.

Filled with purpose, Betty marches to the trailer. Her foot is on the bottom step when there’s a rustle in the scrappy oaks, followed by what sounds like a cough.

Freezing, she waits. Is it the kid who lives in the trailer next to Jughead? Perhaps the one who kicked the can she found? Or - has Penny Peabody returned?

Fear makes enrgy bolt through Betty’s veins. She stampedes up the tiny stairs and raises one fist to hammer on the rickety door.

It opens with a pained squeal before she can knock. Jughead stands revealed by moonlight, still wearing the slim leather band around his throat and low-slung pajama pants. Betty’s never seen anyone so beautiful.

They look at each other for a moment before she bounds inside and flings her arms around him. Fear has ruled her for too long.

“Tell me you want this,” he growls, lips just touching her ear..

“I want this. I think.”

Jughead kisses her then as if he wants to swallow those words. Betty feels her knees buckle at the sudden and demanding touch after so long spent apart, but he catches her and hoists her easily in his arms. Before she can speak he’s carrying her down the tiny hall to the bedroom. “Safeword,” Jughead whispers. “It probably is – well. You know. Might be a good idea. Betts, pick a safeword.”

“Oh.” Betty’s mind whirls. “Uh – Rochester? From Jane Eyre,” she adds idiotically.

He tells her that she really needs to stop obsessing over that book, but already they’re in his room, and his foot catches on the old carpet, and they’re both falling. Jughead flops back on the mattresses, and Betty climbs over him to touch the collar. Possessive fire roars inside her. “This is mine,” she states. “Your skin, your body inside and out. Even your breath is mine.”

With a slow twist, she twists the collar and cuts off his air. Jughead’s eyes darken, and she lets him inhale before doing it again.

 _Please,_ his eyes seem to say.

Betty releases the collar and orders him to take off her clothes. She dressed quickly after getting his text, and the simple bands of fabric fall away so there’s nothing else between them. “How are you doing, Baby Boy?” she whispers. “Need a moment?” He shakes his head decisively, and her heart swells. Jughead is perfect, made for her hands, ready to take everything she gives him.

The flesh of his neck shivers under teeth as she kisses her way down his shoulder, his flanks, to that trail of dark hair that has made her mouth water. Jughead inhales sharply, and she raises one eyebrow. “I won’t last if you do that much longer,” he says.

“Yes, you will. Recite multiplication tables or the first short story you ever wrote.” She nuzzles the warmth between his thighs, licks between them. _Mine,_ Betty thinks. He’s the softest velvet in her mouth, the hardest steel underneath.

Jughead fists the blankets with a long series of curses, and. Betty can see he is indeed getting close. “Want a taste of me?” she asks.

A frantic nod, and she climbs up to sit, thighs on either side of his head. “I’ll make it good,” he promises. “It’s so delicious, Betts, it’s what I missed the most…”

And then he stops talking.

Betty winds one hand in his hair and rides his face. He’s not afraid to plunder her slit, to tongue so softly she can barely feel it until the tremors build with subtle pleasure and she’s shaking with it.

It’s so easy to slip off, slide down his body and straight onto his shaft. Her recent orgasm has made her swollen down there, and they both sigh as he slips inside. “Wait for me,” Betty orders before sucking his lower lip into her mouth and biting. He tastes like her.

“Oh, Betts. Betty. You’re golden. You’re beautiful. You’re brave and smart and oh, my God.”

She feels herself pulsing around his cock, and perhaps he feels it too. With a shout, Jughead arches under her, and the night explodes.

#

When the room shimmers back to reality, Betty lies in Jughead’s arms, her legs tangled with his. “Was I asleep?” he asks.

She snorts. “Maybe. I think I was too.”

“Mmm.”

The little space is warm, dreams are close at hand. Still, there’s something she needs to say. “Sorry I made you wait for so long, Juggie. I know sex is important to you, and I didn’t mean to make things weird.”

“I like weird.” She feels his lips curve into a smile, and Betty pushes up on one arm to look at him. “And of course I’d wait for you. Matter of fact, it was sexy as hell. It might be kinda cool to play around with some forced abstinence in the future, especially if you teased me the whole time. And even more if you galloped on me the way you just did…”

“Galloped!” Betty gasps in mock-outrage, although he’s right - the idea is exciting. “But yeah, I can see it. I’d sent you some up-skirt shots, let you know my fantasies, and you’d have to wait.”

“Not for longer than a couple of days, though. Or a week at the most, especially if you wore that cheerleader outfit of yours. Or a suit, the way you do when you have a presentation for the PTA or something.” His grin is filled with both mischief and tenderness.

Betty feels her insides twist. “I love you.” The words are wrung from her with no way of holding them back.

“You. You.” Jughead pulls her into a brief, hard kiss, and she can feel his answer as though she’s swallowed it. When they part, he closes his eyes. Maybe he’s exhausted from making love.

Outside the planet hurtles inexorably towards dawn. Penny is still somewhere out there in the darkness, perhaps scheming to find them and enact some poisonous revenge. 

It seems strangely appropriate to lie in Jughead’s arms with danger waiting outside, peace separated from chaos by the fragile and ancient trailer. She’ll have to drag herself out of bed and race home in a few hours, praying that Alice won’t notice when she sneaks in. But in that moment, Betty just doesn’t care.

Pillowed on Jughead’s chest, she lets go and falls asleep.

END

**Author's Note:**

> I watched the gif meme compilation of Jughead eating a cherry while he offers to pop Betty's*. This led to a long exploration of Jughead the bad boy, except I hated everything I wrote until I figured out Betty might have a Domme side. And she'd be good at it. And she'd do research about safewords and aftercare and give that bad boy a wild ride.
> 
> Come [visit me on Tumblr](https://mistressofmalplaquet.tumblr.com/) where I routinely fling myself into the sun because of Riverdale.
> 
> *If anyone knows the gif artist who created that scene, please let me know in the comments and I'll give them full credit here. Thanks!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cherry](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12793233) by [redcirce](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redcirce/pseuds/redcirce)




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